


take it, if you can

by shades



Series: like thieves in the night [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternative Universe - the gang gives a good god damn about Arthur Morgan, Background Karen Jones/Sean MacGuire, Blessed Are The Peacemakers, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, stupid sexy Charles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:07:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 68,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21826441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shades/pseuds/shades
Summary: It was a nice respite, Arthur thinks, watching Charles stand, the glint of the sun in his dark hair, his eyes far away, considering, but it wasn’t ever meant to last.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Series: like thieves in the night [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1572790
Comments: 260
Kudos: 575





	1. Chapter 1

The atmosphere at Clemen’s Point is strange as Arthur heals, or perhaps that’s just the fever. Charles brings him harsh, bitter tea to chase away the pain, changes his bandages and irrigates the rotten wound in his shoulder. Arthur sleeps fitfully and wakes with panic in his throat, lashes out at Charles when he tries to wake him from awful dreams. There are mornings that Arthur thinks that death would be kinder to the both of them.

“Hush,” Charles says. “I’ve spent too much time with my hands in your blood to listen to you talk like that.” It’s not any kind of soft reassurance; Charles is eaten up with anger and his words are jagged, sharp. Arthur has seen that anger, over the putrid carcass of buffalo months ago, but this tastes different. At Arthur’s foolishness, more than likely. He was caught easier than one of the fat hares Charles’ brings back from his traps. 

“Sorry,” Arthur mutters. Charles says nothing, only rubs a fresh poultice on his wound and rewraps the bandages.   
  
“You lived,” Charles says, before he takes his leave. “You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

It’s not a month before Miss Grimshaw starts to moan about the state of the donation box, and Pearson starts to snark about the lack of fresh game. Arthur goes to saddle up one morning, gritting his teeth against the tightness in his shoulder, wondering if he should rely on the bow Charles made him; the recoil on his rifle will likely reopen the wound, and Charles will skin him alive if Arthur undoes his work.

He finds Roisin at the hitching post, the black Arabian nuzzling him warmly. It was her, what got him home, half dead as he was. He presses his forehead to her cheek, breathing in the sweet hay smell of her. She wickers softly, lips at his shirt for sugar cubes. “Missed you too, you single-minded wretch,” he whispers, digging into his satchel for some old peppermints. 

“Kieran,” he calls after a fruitless ten minutes spent scouring around for his tack. “Where’s my saddle?  
  
“Sorry, sir, Mister Morgan. I -” He’d been seeing to Branwen, a horse brush still clutched in his nervous hands. “Mister Smith, he said - it weren’t me who did it, he just figured you might, well, and it seems he was right - I - ”

“Spit it out,” Arthur sighs, though he can see where this is going.

“He took it,” Kieran says, flinching back. It’s been a long time since Arthur was the brute that harangued a boy tied, half starving, to a post in Horseshoe Creek, but Kieran’s more like a scalded dog than not. Arthur knows he ain’t a good man, and Kieran’s nervous wincing makes it hard to forget. “I don’t rightly know where he put it, but Mister Morgan, you’re awful pale, and maybe it’s the best you stay in camp, sir -”

“God _dammit_ ,” Arthur says, adding “Not you, boy,” when Kieran cringes back. “Everyone in this god damned camp thinks they know doctoring.”

Kieran flips the brush in his hands nervously. “I’m real sorry, Mister Morgan. We ain’t got much spare right now, neither, and - you’re just so pale, Mister Morgan, maybe you should - ”

Arthur waves this away. Good lord, Charles must’ve put the fear of God into the boy for Kieran to be fretting about Arthur so. 

“Leave it,” he growls and spins back into camp. The movement leaves him out of sorts a moment, the ground slamming violently around beneath his feet. In a moment, Kieran is at his side, bracing against Arthur’s dizziness, saving at least some of his dignity before his staggering ends him up in a pile of manure. 

“Not a word, O'Driscoll,” Arthur says, but with enough self deprecation that Kieran laughs just slightly, rather than getting riled.

“Can I help get you back to your tent?”

“Not on your life,” Arthur says, disentangling himself from Kieran’s support. “I got the picture of it. You see _Mister Smith_ , though, you tell him to see me.”

"Yessir, Mister Morgan, sir.”

Arthur’s heart still clangs unsteadily in his chest; nothing like the full way it tends to when Charles catches his eye over the campfire, his eyes dark and seeing him down to his marrow. No, this feels like his heart is just pumping water through his veins, his blood thin and weak. The wound in his shoulder don’t reek any more, but his body’s turned coward in the face of this damn healing, shrinking back from things that should be easy. If he ain’t moving, he’s dead weight, and he won’t be the burden that puts them in the Pinkertons’ hand. There are good people here, he reckons, and there ain’t much decent work that Arthur is good for, but he can keep them safe, or he can try to.

He thinks about Charles, the taste of his sweat, and hauls himself back to his tent.

*

They’d talked about Dutch, once, after Blackwater and all the hell that had followed after. Charles had asked if he wanted to hunt elk in the Grizzlies, and Arthur had followed in his wake; it was a brutal cold snap, frigid and biting, but it had never occurred to him to say no. On the third night, the cold drove them into a hunting cabin that had been shut up for winter, which they made warm with a fire and their bodies huddled close together. It would be weeks, yet, before Charles touched him for the first time, his coarse hands wrapped sure and warm around Arthur’s cock when they shared a pup tent against a late spring snow. But, when Arthur follows the thread of this thing of theirs back in his mind, he thinks of that night as a beginning. 

The snow around the cabin had melted some, during the day, refreezing in a fine glaze when night rolled back in. By midnight, the world was draped in crystal and silver, shadows cast as deep and long as those cut from late afternoon sun. But Arthur’s sketches of that night lingered on the curl of Charles’ hand around the bottle of brandy they scrounged up from some forgotten cupboard, and the way the bright light of the moon had shone on the ice and the inky spill of his hair.

They had drank the brandy dry between them, passing the bottle back and forth between half-numbed hands. 

“You trust him, then?” Charles had asked, after Arthur had told a rambling story about a heist they’d pulled when he was still so young his voice cracked when he told the guards to stick up their hands. 

“Don’t got much choice in that, do I?” Arthur had said with a strained sort of laugh. “Man raised me in all the ways that matter.”

Charles had said nothing, taking a deep drought before passing the bottle back to Arthur. His eyes had been dark, moonlight throwing the planes of his face into sharp relief, and Arthur had been distracted, nearly letting the bottle slip through his fingers. 

“Don’t think it works like that,” Charles had said, carefully enunciating. The bottle, by then, had been more than half gone.

Arthur remembers bracing for the wave of defensiveness that always crashed when men questioned his loyalty, questioned Dutch. But, when the moment had come and gone, all he had felt were the ripples of worry that had been echoing around his own skull the last year. 

“Don’t got much choice,” Arthur had said again, less cavalier. He had taken a long drought from the bottle and stared into the fire. “Was different, I think. ‘N the old days. Plans seemed to come together easier. The law was always a bit farther behind. Hosea weren’t so worried all the time.” He had closed his eyes, had given into the liquor and the half-formed ideas it conjured, and sagged into Charles’ warmth. It had been a bit uncomfortable, their lines pressed against one another at awkward angles, until Charles had raised his arm to drape across Arthur’s shoulders, letting him fit into the vulnerable curve of Charles’ side. With the heat between themselves and their shared blankets, the cabin had almost sweltered. Sweat had beaded on Charles’ neck, rolled slowly down his throat and into the loosened collar of his shirt. 

“The gang’s got good people in it,” Arthur had said, finally, when the only sound for long minutes had been the pop and hiss of the fire. “People that need protectin’, otherwise they might follow one a Dutch’s plans off a ledge without lookin’.”

“You’d stop them doing that?” Charles’ voice had been soft, almost admiring, where it was pressed against Arthur’s ear

  
Arthur had passed the bottle back and looked down at his hands, busted knuckles, dirty nails, scared with the life of sinning he’d led for so many years. “With my last breath, if I had to.”

*

Arthur's cleaning the camp’s miscellaneous guns, putting what little he can do to good use. Charles is silently conspiring with half the camp, it seems, to keep him in his sick bed. Karen says she don’t rightly know where his spare clothes have gone, she’ll have to see if any other the other girls did that laundry. Kieran’s still at a loss over what happened to his tack. Lenny and Sean say there’s no jobs he’s needed on, to sit down, old man, before he falls down. 

What Charles said to get them all falling over themselves to worry about him, Arthur don’t know. He’d ask the man himself, but Charles’ been gone from camp more often than not, these days, waking Arthur early to inspect his wound before riding out with the sun still half below the horizon. When he’s in camp, most of his time is spent with his head bowed low with Sadie or Karen or Sean; Arthur had even woke one night to nature’s call, only to find Charles having some tense discussion with Hosea by the campfire. Both men had gone silent when they’d noticed him hovering, no explanations asked or offered. 

All this nervous fluttering all over a wound that’s now the rosy pink of new skin, healing up healthy. There’s some acting normal, at the very least. Miss Grimshaw ain’t too impressed with him still lazing around, nor Pearson, who’s now onto haranguing Charles about the lack of game he’s brought in lately. 

And Dutch. Dutch is still the same. He’d come to see Arthur once or twice, before Charles had brought his fever down, had sworn revenge on the O’Discolls. Had told Arthur of upcoming plans that he needed Arthur for, some bloody work and men that needed killing, a big score that would buy them those boat fares to Tahiti. 

“Trust me,” Dutch had said, his face swimming in the drunken swirl of Arthur’s fever. “You made an error, getting run down by those vicious bastards, Arthur, but I shall set this to rest. We’ll toast over their graves together, and soon. You mark my words.”

An error. That was putting it kindly. Arthur had grown sloppy and booked himself early passage to hell for that particular mistake. Now here he was, lame and useless around the camp, while good men, men like Charles, pushed themselves twice over to make up for his weakness. 

Three days was a long time to spend with bad men; they’d left Sean with the bounty hunters for longer than that, true, but those had practically been lawmen. No picnic, but less likely to butcher a man to see the color of his blood than Colm O’Driscoll.  
  
And, he thinks, unwillingly, they’d gone to fetch Sean soon as they could, sneaking back into Blackwater with guns unholstered. There had been a rescue planned out, for Sean, almost from the first moment they noticed him missing. 

There’s a sour taste in Arthur’s mouth, his gut churning. He’s been living on black coffee and Charles’ tea, that had to be it. Time he got some real food in him to settle his stomach.

“Why so grim, my dear boy,” Hosea says, sitting down across him at the camp table, his eyes warm as he inspects the gun disassembled across the rough hewn planks.

“Just thinkin’,” Arthur says, sliding the rifle back together with deft hands.   
  
“Brooding, more like,” Hosea says. “How’s that shoulder treating you?”  
  
“Honest? Would do better if I were allowed to use it some.” Arthur glaces up at him, glaring a bit. “Seems every time I try to get outta camp, though, my things keep goin’ missing. Next thing, you’ll try hiding Roisin under your hat.”  
  
Hosea sighs and spreads his hands. Arthur recognizes this expression as Dumb Old Man Who Didn’t See Nothing, a frequent player in Hosea’s cons. “Sure I don’t know what you mean, Arthur. But, perhaps it’s for the best. You reinjure that wound now, all that hard work Mister Smith has done might be for naught.”

There’s a tone there that Arthur don’t like; he never got so good at double talk, not like Hosea who is so fine with his words. Words in the mouth of a man like Hosea were treacherous; the man could condense down whole unsaid volumes into a turn of phrase and a twinkle in his eye. 

"He knows his herbs, that’s all,” Arthur says. Doesn’t talk about the blank-faced way Charles had tended to him, his body rigid with what maybe was fear. The wound had looked ugly, at first, red lines branching out from the mess of it to his neck and his chest. 

“We’re lucky to have him,” Hosea says easily. “And lucky to have you, too, my boy. Seemed there were some hours there when it didn’t seem so sure.”

“You’d’a done well enough without me,” Arthur mutters. “We got plenty of good men these days. You’d’a been fine.”

He glances up when Hosea stays quiet, finds the man turning a glare on him so fierce that Arthur jolts back to when he was fifteen years old, caught dodging his schooling to go practice his aim.  
  
“What?”

“I raised you smarter than that,” Hosea says, sharply. “You think I’m worried about our _numbers_? Good god, Arthur, when Roisin dropped you back here, I swear I thought she was bringing us a corpse.”

Arthur remembers when Bessie died; she’d gone in her garden, heart giving out to deposit her in the tulips planted round her door. That’s how Hosea had found her, wrapped up in petals, gone to greener pastures without any pain. Hosea’s grief then had been aching, not vicious. It was a gentler end than any of them ever expected for themselves, and there had been a smile on Bessie’s face, it seemed, the night they waked her. Hosea’s grieving was tempered with the joy of the years they’d spent together, and they’d laughed more than they sobbed the day they finally laid her to rest.

This ain’t that. That’s pain, there, etched in Hosea’s features, and it seems deeper than anything Arthur’s words had brought on. Arthur can’t read people near as good as Hosea can, he’s too simple to have picked up the knack, but what he thinks he sees in that worn, kind face, is more guilt than grief. It stuns him silent, the gun left forgotten on the table.

“Hoesa, I -”

“You’re fooling yourself terrible if you think you’re just a body to this family,” Hosea says, but his eyes snap to where Dutch is talking loud with Micha, praising each other over some upcoming heist they got planned. “Though maybe that isn’t your fault.” Hosea sighs, bringing up his fingers to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Not entirely, anyway.”

Arthur doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing, slowly picking up the pieces of the rifle and clicking the last pieces into place. Hosea sits with him a while, the easy presence of the man stirring half-forgotten memories from when Arthur was just a boy, and it was the three of them raising hell through a simpler, wilder word. He loves Hosea more than he could ever have brought himself to love his useless drunk of a father, and Arthur’s hurt him somehow, now, just with his words. 

“You be easy with yourself,” Hosea says, standing once Dutch and Micha’s business seems to be finished up. “And....be easy with Charles. L- concern can make us short, with one another.” Hosea smiles, self-deprecating. “As I have certainly just demonstrated.”

“I will, Hosea,” Arthur says, real quiet. They ain’t got much use for coddling in this life of theirs, but the gentle pressure of Hosea’s hand on his good shoulder loosens the twanging knots in his chest. Comfort was a rare thing; just because Arthur didn’t deserve it, don't mean he didn't grab it with both hands when offered. 

“Dutch,” Hosea calls sharply, turning away. His voice seems cold, but that’s none of Arthur’s business. “A word.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise you guys, I'm going somewhere with this. 
> 
> Planning on updating on Sundays. I've written a fair bit ahead, but want to get my bearings before I slap it all up on AO3.
> 
> This chapter is un-beta'd. Anyone want to yell about sad gay cowboys with me? I'm [allthingsmustfall](https://allthingsmustfall.tumblr.com/) over at tumblr.


	2. Chapter 2

“Want to head out fishing?”

Arthur is shaving, getting the tricky bit under his chin, when Charles wanders up to him, two rods already hung over his shoulder.

“You hate fishin’,” Arthur says, which is true. Charles would happily sit still in the country under two feet of snow for hours, waiting for game to trot by, but Arthur’s never seen him last more than twenty minutes with a fishing pole in his hands. He gets antsy.

Charles smiles at him, a slight twitch of his lips. “So do you. But if you want to spend another day sitting in camp, then - “   
  
“Alright, alright,” Arthur says, splashing water on his face to wash away the last of the lather. “I’m coming. We saddling up? Cos turns out, some thief’s made off with all of Roisin’s tack.”

Charles just stares back at him implacably. “I’m sure it’ll turn up, eventually. No, we’re just walking. Got a spot in mind about half hour from here, if you’re up for it.”

“If I’m up for it,” Arthur mutters, sitting down on his trunk to tug on his boots, griping good naturedly. “I’ll show you what I’m up for, Mister Smith.”

He doesn’t think much about the way the words come out, but when he looks up, sees the intent way Charles regards him, he flushes. Charles casts a careful eye around the camp before he says, calmly, “I certainly hope you do, Mister Morgan.”   
  
The walk along the shoreline seems to take longer than a half hour, but it’s five kinds of relief just to be out of camp. It’s not just shaking all those eyes. Thing is, Charles ain’t been talking to him, much, lately. Or rather, Charles doesn’t talk much ever, but usually Arthur doesn’t think of that as silence. He can admit to himself, maybe, that he has wondered if Charles was done with...whatever this thing is they’re doing. Charles has seen the worst of him, and that ain’t just how wretched he’s been the last few weeks. Arthur couldn’t find it in him to blame Charles, should he move on. 

Now, he knows that ain’t fair to Charles, who is so good and kind, who pressed his fingers so carefully around Arthur’s wound, who had once, memorably, pressed his lips there once it was nicely healed, quick and stolen when the camp was half empty and no one could see, like he couldn’t help himself doing it. But when sleep is scarce and Arthur finds himself winded just hauling buckets of water around camp, it’s a thought that bobs, unbidden, to the surface of his mind.    
  
“Think this’ll do,” says Charles. It’s a narrow beach, some boulders making a natural screen around a patch of clear, soft grass. It’s isolated, sure, but the water is too shallow, with a long slow grade into deeper waters, and it doesn’t have any of the greenery that fish like to hide in.

“Nah, this is no good,” Arthur says, “We’ll never hook anything here. Saw a little inlet a ways back that looked promising, though, if you -”

There’s a lot of people that have looked at Arthur like he’s a fool, but Charles at least looks fond when he does it. He even rolls his eyes when Arthur looks at him, and sets the rods and tackle box down on the ground.    
  
“Arthur,” he sighs, striding up to him, one hand reaching out to brace against Arthur shoulder. For a moment, Arthur thinks it’s supposed to be a comforting gesture, but in the next moment, Charles has hooked a foot behind Arthur’s leg and shoved him, gently, down on to the ground.

“Oh,” Arthur says, feeling heat spread down his neck and onto his chest. In the next moment, Charles is on the ground with him, sitting astride his legs, his fingers pulling at his belt buckle with uncharacteristic impatience.   
  
“So we ain’t fishing,” Arthur says, pushing himself up on his elbows to watch. Charles chuckles, his hands pulling down Arthur’s jeans to his knees. It drops a knife through him, the intensity with which Charles looks at him, wetting his lips with a pink swipe of his tongue.    
  
“Always knew you weren’t so thick,” Charles murmurs, spreading one hand wide beneath Arthur’s shirt, his thumb moving in gentling swipes over his nervous, twitching stomach.    
  
Arthur’s got something to say to that, but he don’t get much time to think. He’s still mostly soft when Charles puts his mouth on him, but his body gets the picture pretty damn quick. He tries so hard to behave himself, when Charles does this for him, but the sight of his cock sliding between Charles’ lips turns all his best intentions to ash. 

“Charles,” he gasps, reaching down to wrap his hands in his hair. He’d squirmed so much, the first few times, trying to sit on his hands and let Charles use his mouth on him without getting in his way, half-worried that if he put a foot wrong Charles would stop. It had taken Charles pulling off, grabbing Arthur’s hands and burying them in his hair, saying “It’s alright, I like it,” for Arthur to give in. Charles mouth is so wet and warm wrapped around him, his tongue pressed mercilessly into his slit, his head bobbing steadily up and down in Arthur’s lap. Arthur curses and makes helpless noise. He had missed this; for so long, his recovery had been about getting out from under the pain, but in the last week his body has come alive again, and reminded him, doggedly, how long it has been since he’d been touched with any sort of kindness.

Arthur rests his weight on one arm, letting himself tug gently at the roots of Charles’ hair. Charles glances up to meet his eyes, and it’s such a perfect picture it makes Arthur’s chest feel tight and small. Charles’ lips are split around him, his hair a messy spill around his shoulders, chin shiny with spit that’s leaked out around the tight seal of his lips. Arthur can’t help thrusting back into his throat, hissing out an aborted apology. Charles just makes a deep, soothing sound in throat and spreads his hand wide over the wild thundering of Arthur’s heart, raking his shirt halfway up his chest. 

It’s embarrassing, how fast he spends, but it’s too much; the sweet, wet suction, the deep brown of Charles’ eyes, the brush of his stubble on the inside of Arthur’s thighs. He groans deeply, letting his hips roll urgently into the yielding heat of Charles mouth, fingers clenching in his hair.

When he’s next able to make sense of things, Arthur is sprawled out on the grass, his jeans still around his knees and his shirt halfway up his chest. Charles has curled against him, his forehead pressed against Arthur’s sternum, breath coming in long, humid pills and he jerks himself into the warm crease of Arthur’s thigh. Before Arthur can protest, Charles is coming, stripping Arthur’s stomach and shuddering out a broken, choked gasp that sounds almost painful.   
  
Arthur finds himself petting through Charles’ hair afterwards, once Charles has become a boneless heap against his chest. 

  
“I wanted - I would’ve done that,” Arthur says quietly, letting his eyes slide closed when Charles presses an open mouth kiss against his clavicles.    
  
Charles chuckles, rolling off him with a regretful noise. He wipes his hand in the grass and says, “I know. I was just - impatient.” His eyes are closed, and he tips his face up into the warm spill of the sun. “I missed this.”   
  
Arthur can only make a soft sound of agreement, though he’s still not sure how he’s lucked into Charles’ affections. But right now, he’s too peaceful to question it closely. He’ll leave that to the small hours of the morning. 

He’s starting to set his clothes to rights when Charles’ makes an objecting noise.    
  
“What?” 

“Don’t bother, you need a bath.”   
  
Arthur looks down at the mess of sweat and come on his stomach, feeling a flush creep down his chest. “Whose fault is that?”   
  
The look that Charles gives him is nothing but deeply satisfied, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. 

  
“You haven’t had a good bath since - since you got back,” Charles says, stumbling only a little. “Go wash off the fever and...all the rest.” He’s definitely grinning at Arthur now. Charles’ eyes are heavy on Arthur’s back as he strips, and while there’s a part of Arthur that wants to cringe away from the observation, the proprietary way Charles looks at him sends something wholly pleasant coursing through him. Charles is sprawled languorous in the soft grass, and smiles deeper when Arthur glaces over his shoulder at him.   
  
“Pretty sure you’re supposed’t tip me, if you’re gonna stare like that,” Arthur grumbles, shoving his jeans over his ankles and rolling to his feet.

  
“Were you planning on dancing?” Charles says, getting to his feet and grabbing one of the fishing poles where he’d discarded it before. From the tackle box, he removes a scrub brush and bar of soap, which he tosses it to Arthur. Maybe that should surprise Arthur, but Charles always seems five steps ahead of him, with his plans, with the...with the things they do together, when they’re alone. “I got my harmonica with me, if you were.”

“Ha, ha, ha,” Arthur calls back, wading into the cool, clear water. “What about you? You just spectating?"  
  
“I just had a bath few days ago,” Charles says, “Besides, I gotta catch us some fish for dinner, Javier will never let us hear the end of it if we come back empty handed.” Charles sends out a line and glances back at Arthur. “Might as well enjoy the natural splendor while I’m at it.”

Charles ain’t wrong, it’s a beautiful late-summer day, dragonflies zipping low across the water, the hills of Scarlett Meadows unfurled around them. He dunks his head and comes up sputtering, but Charles was right, like he’s right about so many things. The soap and brush seem to scrape the last of the sickness from him. His shoulder is still weak, and his body needs some work and energy poured back into it to bring him back to where he was before the O'Driscolls had him in their care. But for the first time, that finish line don’t seem so far away. 

He lingers in the water until his fingers have started to prune and Charles has sat down on the beach, the rod wedged in the sand, one line still cast far out into deeper waters. Charles has managed to bring in a few boney sunfish and one fat trout, more than Arthur would’ve figured possible, especially with his floundering around in the water.

“Master angler, I see,” Arthur laughs. He’s pulled his jeans on, but left off his shirt for now, figuring he’d let the sunlight do some healing on his wound. He slides down behind Charles, resting his back against a smooth boulder, pulling Charles back to lay against him. Charles does so, carefully, making sure his weight is spread mostly on Arthur’s good side.

“Like to see you do better,” Charles says, drowsy from the sun and what they’d done together earlier. “You know, this is a terrible spot for fishing.” 

Well, that deserves some retribution, Arthur thinks, and sneaks a hand down between them to goose Charles hard, finding himself laughing hard at the yelp and look of righteous indignation that Charles tosses over his shoulder before he, too, is laughing, elbowing Arthur in the ribs.

“Alright, alright,” Charles says, still chuckling softly. “Point taken.” He lets his head fall back on Arthur’s shoulder, making a noise of contentment when Arthur noses at the lines of his neck, lips spread wetly over the lobe of his ear, his jugular. It weren’t anything like this with Mary, Arthur thinks. She was so pretty and fine, like a china plate he had worried about dirtying with his grubby hands. He’d thought about how careful he would have to be had they ever gone to bed together, how gentle he’d be with her smooth, pale thighs spread around him. Charles seems reluctantly charmed by Arthur’s deference when they mess around, but there’s not much Arthur could do to truly hurt him, even if he wished to. Arthur’s fantasies of Mary had been abstract, lush and soft musing about how her breast would feel in his hand, how she’d taste if she let him between her legs. It had been a warm throb of arousal when he thought of her, working through his heart and gut in equal measure. But Charles...it don’t usually take more than a look from Charles for Arthur to feel a brilliant crack of need go through him, thinking about the man’s skin, the feel of Arthur’s hands in his hair, the heavy weight of his cock, slick and jerking in Arthur’s hands. It had shocked him, the first few times, how intensely Charles seemed to want him, how easy it had been to make him come with his hands, his mouth. 

There’s not really any comparing the two, Arthur thinks, trailing his hand down Charles’ chest. Maybe that should worry him more than it did. 

“You’re a good man, Arthur Morgan,” Charles sighs, apropos of nothing. 

“Ain’t so sure about that,” Arthur says, but it’s not a fight he wants to have now, in this perfect slice of time, his arms wrapped around Charles as the sun glinted off the lake, the burdens of the camp, of Dutch, as distant as the Grizzlies. It’s more than likely that he loves this man, he figures. It’s not something he has ever found himself asking for, not something he had let himself look for, even while breaking every other law laid down before him. But this don’t feel like sinning, and if it were, he thinks, he don’t rightly care. There’s many bad things that Arthur has done, for his family, for his own selfishness, but the weight of Charles Smith against him as the sun comes down doesn’t count among them. If there’s a fool here, it’s surely Charles, who deserves more than the things Arthur could give him. Eventually, Charles will sort that out for himself, but in the meantime, Arthur will take and preserve as many of these moments as he can.

“This plan, Dutch has, with the Braithwaites and the Grays…” Charles says once they’ve been quiet a long while. 

Arthur sighs, eyes closing. “I know, I know. He’s stickin’ his hand in a vipers nest.”   
  
“He’s sticking all of us in a viper nest along with him,” Charles corrects. “It’s. It doesn’t seem wise.”

“Dutch has done plenty that doesn’t seem wise at the start,” Arthur says, trying to force some confidence into his words. “It’s borne out more good than bad, over the years.”   
  
“Has it?”   
  
The question hangs between them. Arthur wants to be angry at the way Charles so casually questions the man that raised him. Part of him wants to be shocked, too; Charles is a good man, not prone to disloyalty or gossip. But Charles also lived the last decade on his own, by his own rules, and he doesn’t seem the kind of man that falls in line just for pretty words and promises of grandeur. There was a time when the things Dutch offered were noble, if not always lawful, and the stories he spun didn’t seem quite so full of anger. 

“We been through a few bad turns,” Arthur says, quietly. There’s a rope that ties him inexorably to Dutch, the man who taught him to shoot, to read, who had given him a cot and a family all for the small price of loyalty. That price had seemed lower, when Arthur was a boy and Dutch an avenging angel, whipping back the jackals that nipped at their heels. Now, that rope has the weight of manacles, and Dutch no longer seems to stand astride the world. But, the price is the same. Lately, it seems to Arthur that it gets more expensive with every passing day. 

But that’s the way of the world, Arthur reckons. He’s thrown in his lot and there ain’t any undoing it now. All he can do is stay close, keep folk safe, and hope with a child’s hope that the man he remembers from those old days returns from the fog. That don’t mean that the rest of the gang deserves whatever hell Dutch has planned for them, though. They got options still, goodness in them that deserves a chance to settle down and grow. 

It costs him to say it, but it needs saying. “You could go on,” Arthur says, eyes closed. “Dutch wouldn’t send any of us after you, I don’t reckon. What’s happening - what Dutch has got planned. I don’t think it’s getting better any time soon.”   
  
“You could come too,” Charles says promptly, like he’s been thinking about it and can’t stop the words forcing past his lips. That, more than anything, is what wounds him. The offer, yes, because there’s a startled, frantic joy in his chest when he considers it. Thinks about retiring from the life, setting up in a ranch somewhere, hanging around Charles for as long as Charles would have him. Watch the evening sun come down without worrying about empty bellies, festering wounds, or the claustrophobic threat of the Pinkertons. It’s a fantasy too bright to look at head on.

But the pain follows quick on the heels of that thought, because he  _ can’t _ . He owes too much, and it’s some kind of sweet torture to pretend that option exists for him.

“Nah,” Arthur says, with difficulty. “I couldn’t - ah, hell. I just can’t. Wouldn’t blame you if you did, though.”   
  
Charles snorts. Arthur had once thought him impossible to read, but it's clear as day now that Charles is annoyed, his earlier drowsiness replaced by bald-faced frustration. Arthur spreads his hands on Charles’ chest, trying to smother that away, not really understanding where it came from. “You  _ are _ a fool if you think that’s likely.”

“Never said I wasn’t a fool,” Arthur says, carefully. He presses his nose to the back of Charles’ ear, at a loss for what to say. He’s been real good at offending people without meaning to lately, and his apologizing only seems to vex them further. So he keeps quiet for another long moment, until some of that tension goes out of Charles’ shoulders again.

“We should get back,” Arthur says, unwillingly, but the lines of the day have gotten long, and the camp will notice them missing, eventually. It’s almost physical, the way the weight comes down on him as Arthur finishes dressing. He’s hale enough now, to go out and kill the folks Dutch says need killing, to chase down the funds for that promise of Tahiti and mango trees.    
  
It was a nice respite, Arthur thinks, watching Charles stand, the glint of the sun in his dark hair, his eyes far away, considering, but it wasn’t ever meant to last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are always loved. 
> 
> Just as a heads up, I'm going to be playing merry hell with the canon order of events.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some potentially triggery stuff in this chapter, see the A/N for a quick summary of what happens.

“...was a mess, start to finish. I just don’t know what...”  
  
It’s Lenny’s voice, carried intermittently on the breeze working through lakeside woods. The afternoon is sweltering and the thick puff of air provides little in the way of relief. Arthur’s been checking rabbit snares all morning to no avail - seems everything is trying to drowse its way through the broiling summer heat.

“-areful, if I were you,” That’s Abigail, voice ringing clear as a bell. He’d seen them leave camp a bit before he did, her to do some laundry at the lakeshore and him with a rifle to make sure no one bothered her while she was at it. Jack had been tagging along them too, naked as a jaybird and talking excitedly about swimming and the sand castles he was fixing to make on shore. “You know how Dutch has been lately. I’d keep that under your hat.”

It’s not that he means to listen really; it’s a quiet day and their voices are careless. Arthur walks closer and checks yet another trap, cursing when he finds it undisturbed.

“I was _there_ when Micah and Dutch came back,” Lenny says, plaintive, “I heard Hosea ask after Arthur. And Micah, he said -”

Abigail says something quiet that Arthur doesn’t catch, and then, “John heard the same. I mean, Arthur’s always haring off to run errands. Maybe the O’Driscolls got him after Dutch and Micah lost sight of him? He ain’t talked much about what happened.” But her voice sounds hesitant, as if she’d like to be convinced. 

“He didn’t even leave with food or his pup tent,” Lenny says, “I saw it sitting in his tent when Charles laid him out when he got back, beat to seven kinds of hell.”

They’re quiet a moment, the only thing to be heard is Jack’s laughter and enthusiastic splashing. Well, Arthur figures he’s owed a break after walking what felt like a dozen miles to check empty traps. He digs out his canteen and takes a long pull of lukewarm water. This spot is as good as any to catch his breath. 

“Micah’s a liar,” Lenny says, “That isn’t any kind of secret. But Dutch…”

“I know,” Abigail says, so soft that Arthur nearly misses it. “You don’t think he woulda - I mean it was Arthur, of all people. If he wasn’t bothered about _Arthur_ goin’ missing, then... “

“I know. Christ. I know.” Lenny sounds torn up, fretful. “I ride out whenever Dutch has got some scheme cooking, and I didn’t hear _any_ kinda peep about lookin’ for Arthur. Dutch was talking big plans about stealing that moonshine, but nothing about a rescue. Hell, we sat round here for three days congratulatin’ ourselves while he was - Lord, did you see him when he came in?”  
  
“I did,” she says, stiffly. “Wish I hadn’t.”

They’re quiet a long while, long enough that Arthur has to admit to himself he’s eavesdropping. Miss Grimshaw would twist his ear if she caught him at it, but he’s been feeling deaf and dumb in camp of late. His tack and clothes had miraculously reappeared only a few days ago, but there’s still more than a few conversations that grind to halt when people catch sight of him. There’s a lot of movement under the camp’s placid surface. A lot of kind words and worried smiles, sure, but as much as a fool as he is, Arthur ain’t lived to this age by being blind as well as stupid. 

So there wasn’t gonna be a rescue. The thought sits numb in his chest. Sure, he’d thought that might be the case. Had feared it, if he’s being honest with himself, when he was bleeding like a stuck pig in that damn shack. Maybe that means that Dutch is wise, after all, that he’d seen it for the obvious trap it was. But the way they’re talking - had Dutch _believed_ that rat bastard Micah when he said he’d seen Arthur safely away? Or had Dutch seen through the lie and then…

He closes his eyes, throat working. There’s a lot of awful things that Arthur don’t make a habit of shying from, but this makes some kind of dark chasm open up on his chest. Dutch had read with him, when he was spotty and awkward and twelve years old, had called him _son_ and shone with pride when Arthur brought down his first stag. It ain’t clear to him what’s worse, that Dutch had left him there knowingly or that, perhaps, he just hadn’t cared.  
  
Abigail’s soft voice brings him back to the moment, and Arthur finds his hand white knuckled around his canteen. “Lenny, if you - if you’re worried, you should talk to Charles. He’s said some things to John, that -”  
  
“Uncle Arthur!”

Arthur spins around sharply, already annoyed with himself. If young Jack was able to creep up behind him unheard, then maybe he really _was_ deaf, dumb, and blind. 

“Hey there, Jack,” Arthur says faintly. “What you doin’ creepin’ up on an old man?”

Jack grins at him brilliantly, covered from the knees down in dirt and mud. “I got you!”  
  
“You sure as hell did, boy.” Arthur laughs ruefully. “I think your momma took you out here to get clean, she know you’re rollin’ around like a pig in shi - a sty?”  
  
“Arthur?” Abigail calls tentatively. Arthur sighs and scoops Jack up with careless ease, stepping through the screen of trees. Lenny and Abigail aren’t more than ten feet away, Lenny holding his rifle warily, Abigail crouched near the water, sweat sticking her hair to her pretty forehead. Baskets of fresh washed laundry have been lined up on the shore, ready to go back to camp to be hung out to dry.

“Hey there, Abigail, Lenny,” Arthur says. He ain’t much of a liar, but he’s pretty good at acting dumb. “Just finished checking every damn empty trap between here and Rhodes. What you folks up to?”

Abigail and Lenny share a look that Arthur politely ignores. When he doesn’t come at them with questions, they cautiously relax. “Oh, just finishing up the washing.”  
  
“How you feelin', Arthur?” Lenny asks. 

Arthur gives him a look under the brim of his hat. “Feelin’ like I’m tired of that question.”  
  
“I scared Uncle Arthur, momma!”

“I _heard_ ,” Abigail says, laughing and indulgent. She stands, wiping her hands on her skirts. “Arthur, I’ll take the little man if you and Lenny don’t mind hauling all these wet clothes back to camp for me. Seems _someone_ needs another good bath.”  
  
Jack squeals in protest, but he’s mostly giggling as Arthur passes him over into his mother’s arms. Watching them, Arthur finds himself thinking of Isaac and Eliza, the simple life they’d tried to build, and shies back away from those fragile memories as if he’s put his hand too close to a flame. No use in conjuring more ghosts to haunt him. He smiles through the sudden ache and tips his hat at Abigail as he and Lenny gather up the clothes.

They’re halfway back to camp, sweating as they lug the heavy baskets down the trail, when Lenny clears his throat and darts a concerned look over at him. “Y’sure you’re alright, Arthur?”

“Oh sure,” Arthur sighs. He thinks about bleeding in the dark, the bright thread of hope that he’d soon hear hoofbeats and gunshots and Dutch’s booming voice come to save him from perdition. 

Lying is the least of his sins. “I’m just fine.”

*

The world ain’t ever been a kind place, Arthur thinks, but even by that standard it’s been a long and bleak handful of days. He and Roisin had trotted out of camp a few days gone, more to prove to himself he was fit for the road than any real necessity. Charles had pursed his lips watching him go, but said nothing. Arthur figured that was as close to a ringing endorsement as he was likely to get. At first, the freedom had been a relief that reached down to his toes. Roisin, too had been frisky, tossing her head and launching into a joyous gallop at the first touch of his heels. 

But the return to camp is slower. Arthur’s fists are sore and his knuckles split open. Somewhere behind him, Jeremiah Compson is lying dead in a ditch with his prized possessions turned to ash before him. Arthur supposes that should make him feel better, but he’s felt more pride killing rats. He don’t like this place. He hates the wet heat and the damn alligators and the men that turn their head and spit when they see Tilly and Lenny and Charles stroll by. He hates the cowards that hide in the woods and burn crosses and assume he agrees with their blathering because of the color of his skin, like that’s some kind of grand achievement. 

They got to get back West Arthur thinks. There’s bad men all over, Arthur should know, but Lemoyne is lush with racist bastards and the yellow folks that just turn a blind eye. He thinks about the curl of Charles’ dark hands around him, the easy kindness that pours out of him, and considers turning back round to find more of those hooded rodents to stamp out. 

But he’s coming up on camp now, and there’s a loud peel of Sean’s laughter that carries all the way out to the trail. It’s been a while since camp was a happy place, and it’s half exhaustion, half curiosity that makes him turn Roisin’s head towards home. 

“Jaysus, you look like a mop in an ink shop,” Sean is saying as Arthur hitches Roisin, his voice almost overcome with laughter. He tries to say something else, but he loses his composure and ends up bent over, laughing so hard he has to brace his hands on his knees. 

“Sean MacGuire, you come over here and say that, you yellow-bellied Mick.” That’s Karen’s voice, alright, but Arthur can’t place her in the crowd around the campfire. 

“Oh aye?” Sean says, his eyes dancing. “What’re you gonna do to me, woman? Gimme a _black eye_?”  
  
“What’s goin’ on here?” Arthur asks, taking in the group perched around the fire. Tilly’s got a game of dominoes going with Charles at the table (Arthur hopes he don’t have much money riding on the game, he’s warned him that Tilly is a ruthless player and smug when she wins) and Mary-Beth and Kieran sitting close on one of the logs, her hiding a smile behind her hand and him looking like he’s trying to work out whether he’s willing to risk Karen’s wrath for laughing. Sadie’s leaning on a tree behind Sean, watching the scene play out with a grin. The last woman… “Jesus, Karen, is that you?”

Karen’s a pretty woman, ain’t no denying that, full of curves when most women seem to be little more than skin and bones. Her hair especially seems to be the envy of the other girls, so fine and fair, curling around her jaw in loose waves. Least, usually it is. 

“What the hell’d you do to your hair?”  
  
It’s a deep black, now, her eyebrows too, and the change is so jarring that she hardly seems the same woman. By rights, it shouldn’t much matter, Arthur’s never been fussed about the color of a lady’s hair. But dark hair doesn’t really suit her. She looks pinker and blotchy, though that might just be the fit she’s working herself into. It’s hanging strange, too, looking like matted straw. She spins to glare at Arthur, her hands crossed over her chest. 

“Fuck you, too, Arthur Morgan,” she says. He raises his hands and takes a few steps back. 

“It, uh, looks nice?” he says, which only makes Sean collapse back into hysterics. 

“I seen half drowned rats that looked better,” Sean say gaily, throwing his arm over Arthur’s shoulder. “Good lord, woman, what possessed you?”  
  
“I’m doing a damn _job_ , Sean,” she snaps. “Maybe you’ve heard of it?”  
  
“A job?” Arthur asks. 

“Yup, a job,” Sadie says, pushing off the tree. “Tilly found us a lead ‘bout some big mansion out in Ambarino. There’s talk they’re sitting on a small fortune. Miss Jones and I are gonna go get work as maids to see if there’s any truth to it.”  
  
“You two,” Arthur says slowly. “Is getting work. As maids.”  
  
“There a problem with that?” Karen says sharply.

“No! No, no, no,” Arthur says. There are a thousand problems with that, but it would take a greater fool that Arthur to raise them when both the women are looking at him like that. He clears his throat. “Why you dying your hair, though?”  
  
“Cuz I got half a dozen _warrants_ out in Ambarino, Arthur,” says Karen, like Arthur is hard of learning. “It’s a damn disguise. Not everyone can skip shaving a few days and be someone else.”

That don’t make much sense, either. They’ve all had bounties slapped up in Sheriffs’ offices all over the West, but it usually only takes a change of name and a wash to duck lawmen if they don’t already know where the gang’s holed up. But Arthur takes in Karen’s flushed face, the strange, stiff lay of her hair, and nods as if she’s handed down some deep wisdom.

“Oh, you’re someone else alright. Me ma used to tell us stories ‘bout banshees back home. Never thought I’d see one in the flesh, though.” Sean dances backwards when Karen advances on him, ducking behind Arthur for protection. “Help me, Arthur! Get the holy water! Get a damn stake!”

“I’d shut my mouth if I was you,” Arthur says, laughing. “Ain’t no way to talk to a lady, there, Mister MacGuire.”

“You show me a lady and I’ll talk to her like one,” Sean says, and yelps when Karen catches him by the ear. “Have mercy! I might have children somewhere!”  
  
Arthur ducks out of that particular fracas before it comes to blows, or something worse. He’s seen the dance that Sean and Karen do around one enough times to know that this particular scene plays out with them half out of their clothes and making too much racket by half. 

“A job, huh?” Arthur says to Sadie. 

“Figured I’d finally start to contribute to the cause,” Sadie says. “Good thing you got back when you did, we’re hitting the road tonight. It’ll take a good bit of time to get out there, and then there’s getting the work and sniffing around for information. Wouldn’t expect us back before next month sometime. We’ll send word when there’s more to know.”  
  
“You sure that’s a good idea?” Arthur says carefully.

“Don’t seem like there’s much good ideas round here,” Sadie says. “Figure, what’s one more bad idea to throw on the heap?” She gives Arthur a wry grin. “We’ll be fine. I’ve seen Karen in action, and I ain’t no shrinkin’ violet.”  
  
Arthur chuckles. “Truth be told, I'm more worried about Ambarino than I am about the two of you.”

Sadie jerks her head in agreement, satisfied. “I was hopin’ we’d be on the road by now, but I’m thinkin’ Karen’s gonna want to give Sean a _goodbye_ before we do.”  
  
Arthur looks back over his shoulder; Sean’s got Karen by the waist now, spinning her around to some song he’s singing, bellowing out the words he knows and making them up when his memory fails him. She’s trying to hold back a smile, looking up at him with poorly contained fondness. A nice little moment, Arthur thinks, the sort that makes his fingers itch for his pencils. It’s probably something like love, this thing Sean and Karen have got between them, strange and raucous but shining through despite their best efforts to the contrary. He looks for Charles and quirks his mouth when he finds the other man already watching him, smiling. 

“Lord help us all,” Arthur sighs.

*

The sun’s coming down by the time the girls get on the road, Sadie looking resigned and Karen looking flushed and tousled.

Before they head out, Karen surprises him by embracing him tightly, her hands wrapped around his waist. He pats her awkwardly on the shoulder, muttering, “You two watch each others’ backs out there now, you hear?”  
  
“We’ll be _fine_ , Arthur,” Sadie says, already saddled and patting Bob’s neck. She looks anxious to be gone, glancing back over her shoulder at the road.

“You watch yourself, Arthur,” Karen says, pulling away and swinging up onto Old Belle. “And Charles, you watch him too.”  
  
Charles is leaning under a nearby tree and smoking a cigarette, the smoke curled around his head. He tips his hat at them. “I’ll do my best.”  
  
The rest of the gang stops eating their supper to see them off, Sean stealing one last kiss before the girls head off down the trail. 

“I got a signed dollar says they’re dead before the end of the week,” Micah says before they’ve even rounded the bend. The words seem to dislodge something damp and gruesome in Micah’s chest, and he starts hacking wetly into a handkerchief.

“Shut the fuck up, Micah,” Lenny snaps, beating Arthur to the punch.  
  
“I’m sure the ladies will do just fine,” Dutch says indulgently. He’s done up as usual, mustache waxed and his vest shiny in the setting sun. Behind him, Molly watches the girls’ departure warrily. Her eyes are red again, Arthur notices; they so often are, these days. Her pretty makeup looks smudged too and her hair is coming down out of the usual artful pile on her head. Dutch looks back at her, his lip pulling back before he says, “Seems some of the women are interested in pulling their weight at least.”  
  
The words are sharper than the barbs Dutch usually employs, and it seems to dissolve what little iron in Molly’s got left in her spine. She turns away wordlessly, ducking back into their tent. 

Dutch doesn’t seem to notice the awkward silence that’s welled up as he turns back to the group. He claps his hands together. “Now, Mister Bell, there was some business you wanted to discuss?”  
  
“Yeah, boss,” Micah says, rattling out another damp cough. He darts a suspicious, beady-eyed look around the group. “Privately, of course.”  
  


“For God's sake, man, cover your mouth,” Dutch says as they turn away, headed down to the dock. “You sound like five pounds of shit in a one pound bag.”

The evening wears on and, blessedly, some of the heat leaches out of the air when the sun finally dips below the horizon. There ain’t much of a reason to sit round the campfire drinking, Arthur thinks, but there also ain’t a good reason _not_ to, which is probably why a few hours later finds a good half dozen of the gang passing around a bottle of whiskey, talking over each other and laughing to fill up the quiet. 

Abigail is looking pretty and flushed where she’s sitting in John’s lap, and she’s chiding all of them when she says, “You know, I don’t know why you guys gave Karen such grief. I think she looked pretty.”

“You think John looks pretty too,” Arthur says. “Don’t think your opinion counts for much.”  
  
“Fuck off, Morgan,” John says, but it’s delivered out of habit, his heart’s not really in it. He even smiles at Arthur, toasting him with the bottle before taking a swig. 

“He _does_ look pretty,” Abigail coos. She leans down to press a kiss on John’s scarred cheek. “Don’t you know scars are dashing, Arthur? 

Arthur doesn’t need to glance at Charles, seated beside him in an untidy sprawl, to know how his scar curves over his jaw and down his neck. He’s felt it under his mouth more than once, the smooth way it interrupts the stubble on Charles’ cheek, felt how Charles’ breath stutters when Arthur flicks his tongue over the bit that crosses his throat. Sure, Arthur thinks, it could be pretty. More so if he didn’t know just how close a wound like that could come to killing a man. 

But he ain’t had enough whiskey for any of that to tumble past his lips, so he says “Yeah, I heard that. Mostly in the kinda books that Mary-Beth reads.”  
  
“And how would you know that if you ain’t ever cracked one, Arthur?” Mary-Beth says primly. She leans forward to snatch the whiskey bottle from John, already unsteady with drink. Kieran, perched beside her all night, darts forward to stop her from falling into the fire.

“They got nice soft paper,” Arthur says, “Good for the outhouse, if nothing else.”

She smacks him lightly on the arm, but she’s laughing along with the rest of them, relaxed enough to let Kieran settle her down close beside him on the log. 

“Where did you get that scar of yours, Charles?” Bill asks, over pronouncing his words. He’d started hitting the bottle earlier than the rest of them and it’s starting to show. Ain’t no different than most nights, but there’s something that Arthur don’t like about the way he’s been watching Charles, lately. Bill’s a brute and an idiot, but there’s something else in his gaze that feels - greedy. “Anything better than baiting wolves?”  
  
It’s a question that Arthur hasn’t asked Charles himself, for all the things they’ve told each other. They’ve both got maps of old fights criss-crossing their bodies, and most of those stories weren't any more interesting than "some bastard tried to kill me, but it didn't quite take." 

Even so, he glances over at Charles curiously. Charles rolls his eyes and waves at Mary-Beth for the whiskey, from which he takes a long, deep pull.

“Baiting _bears_ ,” he said seriously, only cracking a smile when the rest of the group groans, John shoving his shoulder.

“That ain’t fair, Charles,” Mary-Beth says. “We know how John got his, and how Arthur got plenty of his.” 

Charles shrugs, and maybe it’s just the amount of time they’ve been passing together lately, but Arthur seems to be the only one to notice the sudden stiffness in his spine. Charles takes another deep drink, buying time.

“If he don’t wanna he don’t gotta,” Arthur says, ready to put this topic to rest by force if need be.

“Hell no, I wanna know,” Bill says. Definitely slurring now, Arthur notes. Bill’s a mean bastard when he’s on the other side of tipsy and Arthur’s fists are already aching; he’d prefer not to punch the bastard’s lights out if he can help it. Charles must read some of that in him, because he reaches out to grip Arthur’s arm, pulling him back down against the log.

“Ain’t interesting,” Charles says. “I was a kid. Misjudged someone, that’s all.”

“Aw come on,” John says, grinning. “That’s not a stor-”

“God _DAMMIT_ , woman, would you quit your god damned caterwauling?” Dutch’s voice lashes through the chatter like a whip. The group falls silent. Faintly, Arthur can hear Molly crying; it was getting to be such a common noise in the camp’s evening hours that he’s started to tune it out. The realization makes guilt spread queasily through his gut, not mixing well with the liquor he’s been drinking all evening. “If you ain’t good for this, then what the hell _are_ you good for?”

Dutch storms out of the tent, his shirt unbuttoned, hat forgotten somewhere behind him. He’s flushed red and monstrously angry, the kind of fury that you could beat someone half to death with. He turns to face them, lips pulled back in a sneer. “What the hell you all looking at? Don’t you got work to do?”  
  
It snaps the tension like a twig. John’s got his arm tight around Abigail’s shoulders, leading her away as she looks anxiously over her shoulder. Kieran, Arthur’s surprised to notice, has been shocked into standing up, his body positioned between Dutch and where Mary-Beth sits, wide eyed, at the fire. The rest of them murmur excuses, quickly heading off to their beds.

Hosea’s the only one to say a word, rousing from his cot with a furious set to his mouth. “Dutch! What the hell has got into-”  
  
“Not now, Hosea,” Dutch snaps, grabbing his holsters and heading out to the hitching post. “I’m going for a ride.”

He should check on Molly, Arthur thinks, starting to get to his feet. He knows Dutch ain’t an easy man, for how charming he can be, but it ain’t fair to take it out on a woman like that. Hell, Dutch had _taught_ him that he finds himself thinking, almost frantically. He’s just started to wonder what the hell he can say to her when he feels a warm hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down.  
  
“I’ll see to her,” Tilly says, staring at Dutch’s retreating back. Last Arthur saw, she’d been seeing to her sewing at her tent. “Don’t you worry none.”  
  
“I can -”  
  
“Trust me, Arthur Morgan, this is one thing you can’t do.”  
  
He looks up at her, her jaw set, clear-eyed and determined. He knows that the gang’s women are made of tempered steel, but there’s something in the furious set of her shoulders now that makes Arthur think of blood and bone. Above his head, Tilly and Charles exchange a speaking glance that Arthur doesn’t exactly follow.

Tilly nods firmly, agreeing to something unsaid and spins away, headed for the closed flaps of Dutch’s tent. 

“Fuck,” Arthur breathes. There’s a knot in his throat that’s hard to swallow around and his hands won’t stop shaking. He clenches his fists to stop it, fingernails digging into his palms.

“I know,” Charles says softly, already standing. He offers Arthur a hand up. More than anything, the look on his face is tired. “C’mon. Best we turn in.”

Sleep comes slowly that night, sliding in with bad dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference to the KKK and canonical bigots Arthur meets in Lemoyne. Dutch is verbally/emotionally abusive towards Molly. 
> 
> The soft paper line about Mary-Beth’s books is borrowed, with love, from Terry Pratchett’s bit about why Farmers’ Almanacs are so popular in rural communities, where good toilet paper is hard to find. 
> 
> Tumblr is [here](https://allthingsmustfall.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> Comments/kudos are love!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More shitty stuff in this chapter. See the A/N below for a quick summary.

Dutch is gone two days before he comes back to camp, all smiles and wide open arms, returning just ahead of a furious, drenching summer storm. He’s got a pretty bunch of flowers for Molly and a new gold chain; if there’s an apology to go with them, Arthur doesn’t hear it. Molly receives it stiffly, thanking Dutch in a quiet voice before he sweeps her into the tent, acting like a new groom, almost picking her up in the haste to get her inside. 

Arthur watches it all from behind his wagon, where he’s making himself useful by taking inventory of the camp’s ammo. Glancing around, he catches Hosea and Tilly staring at the tent flaps too; neither look amused.

Most of the camp have busied themselves with little projects. The storm is blessed in the way it cools the air, but it’s coming down far too hard to go riding in. From where he’s standing, Arthur can see where Charles has set up in his lean-to, frowning in concentration as he crafts new arrows. 

“Misjudged someone, huh?”

Arthur pauses, eyes flicking over to Charles. Bill has leaned himself against the post holding up Charles’ roof, a bottle dangling from his fingers. He’s swaying slightly, Arthur notes. They got to get him on watch more often; lately when Bill’s left with loose ends he ends up at the bottom of a bottle. 

Charles doesn’t glance up from his work. “You thinking about taking a break from the bottle, Bill?” 

“I think I got a feeling I know what you _misjudged_ , boy.” It’s a leering tone of voice, clearly meant to be sly, but Bill ain’t got the wits to make it land.

Charles doesn’t react except to roll his eyes, setting an arrow aside and picking up the makings for the next. “Figure that’s none of your business.”

“Figure I could _make_ it my business,” Bill says, sticking his chin out and puffing up his chest. He sways in closer to Charles. He looks absurd, stained clothes and a wild beard, eyes unfocused with drink. Arthur ain’t altogether sure what Bill is getting at, but he doesn’t like his posturing, likes even less the tension creeping down Charles’ spine.

“Go sober up, Bill,” Charles says, glassily calm, but he’s stopped working, staring back up at Bill steadily, jaw tight.  
  
“Y’sure that’s what you want me to do?” Bill says, snickering as he takes another swig from the bottle. His eyes slide over Charles in a way that churns Arthur’s gut. He says, “Maybe you an’ me can go huntin’ together sometime. Get out real far in the country for a night or two. Private like.” He laughs again and it comes out sounding cruel. “Bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Mister Smith?” 

Arthur slams shut a box of shotgun ammo and steps out into the rain. That’s just about enough of that. 

“Hey there, Bill,” Arthur calls, loud and cheerful as he strolls up to the lean-to, ducking inside without pausing. It’s too crowded with three grown men, but that’s half the point. “Pearson was lookin’ for you, he needs help peelin’ potatoes for dinner.”  
  
Bill sneers, staggering back. “Get one of the women to do it. Charles and I is havin’ a _talk._ ”

“No we’re not,” Charles said, turning back to his arrows. “Go on now, Bill. Best you just walk away.”

Bill glowers and stares between them, something hateful and vindicated passing over his features. He takes a step back and spits, just shy of hitting Arthur’s shoe. “Fine, I see how it is, you fucking fa-”

“You sure that’s a sentence you want to finish, Bill?” Charles says mildly. His knife is unsheathed on the table in front of him; he’d been using it to assemble the arrows. 

Bill, for how hammered he is, manages to shut his mouth. He sneers as he turns away, stomping heavily through the mud puddles littering camp. 

“I do _not_ need your help dealing with Bill goddamn Williamson,” Charles says quietly, once Bill has disappeared under the roof of Pearson’s wagon. He gives Arthur a look out of the corner of his eye, annoyed. 

“I know,” Arthur mutters, feeling foolish. Charles ain’t some babe in arms that needs defending. God knows Charles had laid Micah out in the middle of camp not three days gone when the man had been running his mouth. It was a beautiful hit; Arthur had been cackling before Micah even hit the ground. “I just - don’t like the way he was talking to you, that’s all.”

“Here,” Charles says, handing Arthur a bag and gesturing at an upturned crate. “Make yourself useful and sort the feathers for fletching like I showed you.”

Arthur sets to it, letting his knee sag into Charles’ thigh as he works. He’s known Bill for years; he’s not a smart man, nor a particularly kind one, but he’s been reliable enough to keep around. But casting an eye back, he don’t think he’s ever heard Bill talk to anyone quite like that, threatening and greedy and entitled. Certainly not to any of the women, and it seems he’s never been fool enough to try it with the men. It unsettles him more than he likes, and he’s having a hard time trying to pin down why. After a long span of time, Charles sighs and says,  
  
“Bill wants something.” 

“Huh?”  
  
Charles doesn’t look at him as speaks, his attention focused on the arrow he’s fletching. “He wants something. And he isn’t happy about wanting it. And if any one were to give him what he wanted, I think he probably wouldn’t think much of them afterward. Might hurt them. Words or fists, could be both.”  
  
Charles glances up at Arthur meaningfully. “I’ve known men like Bill Williamson. He’s not someone I’d trust too far.”  
  
Arthur’s gut is tight, now. Anger, maybe, he thinks distantly. Or just disgust. He stares out over the camp to where Bill is sullenly peeling potatoes, drinking deeply from the bottle at his feet.

“You known men like him, huh?” Arthur says woodenly. 

Charles breathes out a laugh and shakes his head. “Not a lot of Arthur Morgans in the world,” he says lightly. 

Arthur snorts, finally looking away from Bill. “Thank God for that.”

Charles just hums noncommittally, finishing another arrow and starting on the next. They always came out finer than the ham fisted ones Arthur slaps together, sleek and elegant and flying true. Arthur watches Charles’ hands as he works; Charles is a big man, tall and broad shouldered with heavy, thick-fingered hands, but his movements are deft, confident. Arthur swallows dryly just watching him, his cheeks warming.

“You’re staring,” Charles says softly, glancing over at him.  
  
“Sorry,” Arthur says, focusing back on sorting and cleaning the feathers. Charles probably don’t need him gawking while he’s trying to work.  
  
“I don’t mind. Just thought you should know.” Charles pauses before he says his next words carefully. “There’s a lot of people in camp today.”

Arthur thinks about the men like Bill Williamson and the careful, precise way Charles had touched Arthur at first, like a dog half expecting a kick. His mouth twists. “To hell with them,” he says with feeling. “Don’t see how what they make of it matters.”

Charles raises his eyebrows, surprise writ plain on his face. He recovers quick enough, schooling his expression into something more placid, but Arthur allows himself a moment of satisfaction at having shocked him. Charles is so steady, it’s nice to see him off his keel for once. Usually Arthur is the one left floundering for words. 

“I was a kid,” Charles says, inexplicably, once they’d been working silently for twenty minutes. When Arthur frowns at him, he gestures at his cheek, the branching scar that hooks around his jaw. “Sixteen or seventeen, can’t remember now. I was working at a ranch out in New Hanover for the winter. The owner’s son…” Charles pauses, sighing. “We’d been drinking. Made us less careful then we should’ve been. His daddy caught us. Kid panicked. Shoved me off. Grabbed the whiskey bottle and -” He mimes smashing it on the table. “I was on my knees, couldn’t get out of range quick enough. So, he glassed me.”

“Jesus, Charles.”

Charles shrugs, closely inspecting an arrow he’s just fished. “Kid told his daddy I - forced him,” he adds after a moment, struggling over the words. “Got ran outta town, had to steal a horse. They would have lynched me if they caught me." He sets the arrow aside and shakes his head, sighing. "I haven't thought about that in years.” 

“What was the name of his ranch?” Arthur asks in a low, steady voice. 

Charles laughs shortly, shaking his head. “Not important. Kid probably still walks with a limp though, with what I did to his kneecap.”

Arthur finds himself staring at Bill again, brimming with the sort of fury that gets men killed, sloppy and wrathful and burning like a hot coal in his chest.

“Give that here,” Charles says, tugging a long goose feather from Arthur’s grasp; he’d bent it nearly in two, the fine quill cracked. Useless now, for fletching.

“Sorry,” Arthur mumbles, meaning the feather as much as the nameless cowards in Charles’ past. 

Charles just shakes his head. “Ignore Bill. Men like him…. Just steer clear of him.” He stares at Arthur a moment. “I’m not asking.”

“I hear you, Jesus,” Arthur mutters, cracking his knuckles. 

The rain is still coming down vengefully, flooding the paths they’ve worn through camp. Arthur finds himself thinking about the first time Charles had let Arthur take him, when they were forced to book a room in a saloon to wait out a similar, furious summer storm. He remembers how hard the rain had come slapping against the warped window panes, blurring the countryside into a muddled smear of color. Beneath him, Charles had cursed and twisted his hands in the sheets, moving effortlessly back onto his cock in an easy, rolling rhythm that had wrung an orgasm out of Arthur far too quickly. He thinks about how slick Charles had been inside afterwards, when Arthur pressed his fingers up into his hole, his cock heavy and dripping in Arthur’s mouth.

They were fools as well as cowards, Arthur thinks, any man that had seen Charles come apart like that and found it in themselves to do violence after. 

“Get outta your head,” Charles murmurs, stowing away his tools and arrows.

“Yeah, yeah,” Arthur says, rolling to his feet. “Wishin’ we was back in that saloon out in East Falls Meadow - you remember the one?”  
  
Charles smiles to himself, glancing at Arthur out of the corner of his eye. “Yes,” he says patiently, “I remember the one.”  
  
They’re still standing there, grinning at each other like fools a few moments later when Herr Strauss carefully picks his way across camp, dressed in a heavy duster and clutching his ledger to his chest.  
  
“Mister Morgan, Mister Smith,” Strauss says, pushing his fogged glasses up his nose. “I don’t suppose either of you have seen Micah today?”  
  
“He went down into Rhodes this morning, looking for some medicine for that cough of his,” Charles says, which Arthur hadn’t known. The man had been carrying that rattle with him since Horseshoe Overlook; lately, it seems the heavy air of Lemoyne has only made it worse. 

“A shame,” Strauss sighs, looking down at his book. “There are some clients that are...reluctant to pay their interest.” He glances up at Arthur hopefully. “Unless, you’re available to - ?”  
  
"This isn't any kind of weather for riding,” Charles says before Arthur respond. “Micah can see to it when he's back and the weather's clear.” He bares his teeth in a poor imitation of a smile. “Just think, your interest payments will be that much richer if you wait another few days.”

Strauss shifts uneasily, peering at them through his spectacles. He reminds Arthur of a bird, his bobbing head and short, flighty movements. The leather duster hangs off his narrow shoulders like untidy wings. Arthur finds himself thinking of the gangly vultures that track wounded animals for miles, waiting for them to drop. “I- I suppose you're right. But...Mister Bell does tend to be - overzealous.” Strauss chuckles. “As I have told him, there’s no getting money from a corpse, hm?”

“I’m sure Micah’ll be back soon,” Charles says. 

For a moment, Arthur thinks Strauss is going to try and fight Charles on it, which makes him feel all the more a fool for standing to the sidelines and watching them argue over the work Arthur should be doing, like he’s too simple to have a say himself. Truth is, he _doesn’t_ want the job, but if there’s a good or smart way to tell Strauss his work disgusts him, Arthur don’t know what it is. It’s a coward’s way out to let Charles stare down Strauss, but he finds it hard to raise any objection. 

Eventually, Strauss seems unsettled by Charles calm gaze and says, “I - yes. I’m sure you’re right. Good evening, gentlemen,” before retreating back to his tent, a nervous look tossed back over his shoulder.

“Don't need your help dealing with Herr Strauss,” Arthur says, giving a look Charles a look. 

Charles doesn’t seem the least bit apologetic. “I don’t think that’s true.” He flicks his eyes up to meet Arthur’s. “You hated doing those jobs.”

True, Arthur thinks, though it shames him. Sure, they’re thieves and murderers, but time was they had only killed the people that tried to kill them first and robbed rich folk of their baubles and purses. They hadn’t taken food off any lean tables, nor gone preying on the weak and the desperate. Those were the folk Dutch had insisted they were remaking the world for. Hell, Dutch had thrashed Arthur raw once, when he was just a boy and had come back to camp carrying the last few coins he’d lifted off a beggar. 

“I did,” Arthur says, curling and uncurling his fists, thinking of the times he’s split them open on the jaws of men that were just trying to make a life for themselves, their families. “It ain’t pretty work, but Strauss brings in money. _Legal_ money.”

Charles shakes his head, turning away. “That's just Dutch talking with your mouth.”

That hurts deeper for how true it is. Strauss had sent Arthur out on a dozen collections across the Heartlands, happy enough to take the money and valuables from Arthur’s gory hands. Arthur had done the work and shut his mouth, and tried not to think about the pleas and the tears once the jobs were done. But what he could avoid in daylight always crept back in, relentlessly, at night. 

It was in Horseshoe Overlook that the work finally passed to Micah. He and Charles had chased a few bounties up into the Grizzlies and let themselves delay needlessly in their shared tent for almost a week after they’d chased down and killed the last man. Arthur had tried to think of his duties, of the work waiting for him back at camp, but those burdens felt slippery when they were out on the trail together, hunting and fucking and sitting quiet at their camp as the sun came down. He’d woken one night when the moon was still high in the sky, Charles wrapped up asleep beside him, hair spilling across his bare back, a mark from Arthur’s mouth on the back of his shoulder, and Arthur had forgotten for whole minutes that there was a world on the other side of the tent flaps that wanted things from him. He had carded his hand through Charles hair and let himself pretend that, maybe, the things Charles wanted from him were enough to build a life on. 

By the time they’d ridden back into camp, overdue but carrying a heavy purse for the donation box and enough venison to stock the camp’s stores, Strauss had passed the work on to Micah. 

Now, Arthur simply grunts, looking out at the storm. It doesn’t make him feel like a good or strong man to pass his jobs off onto cretinous little bastards like Micah. It’s arrogant to pretend there’s such a thing as work that’s below a man like himself, but the work don’t seem to hang on whatever rotten nub of a soul Micah has the way it had done to Arthur. Arthur cracks his knuckles restlessly, only stopping when Charles presses a glass of whiskey into his hands.

“Leave it to Micah,” Charles murmurs, tugging Arthur down to sit beside him, a respectable six inch gap left between their bodies. There’s a distant roll of thunder, chased some seconds later by a flash of lightning. The gramophone in Dutch’s tent is playing, reedy music barely discernible over the fall of rain. Charles curls his fingers over Arthur’s good shoulder, his thumb pressed intimately over the back of his neck, sweeping gently down his spine. “It ain’t any kind of work for good men.”

*

The steady decline of their fortunes has become familiar. From the disaster at Blackwater to the disaster at Valentine, the loss of Jenny and Davey and Mac, the mad glint in Dutch’s eye that seems to get sharper, bloodier with each passing day. Each day has felt like they’re sinking deeper into the clutch of someone else’s madness. It’s a pain that Arthur now expects and ignores. In retrospect, he thinks that that numbness sharpened the blade of what happened next.

They’re gathered round the fire three nights after the storm. Javier has restrung his guitar and laughs as he plays. It’s a nice sight to see, Arthur thinks, his pencil poised above a half-finished sketch of a loon he’d caught sight of that morning. Javier is a good man, loyal to Dutch, but he ain’t blessed enough to be blind to Dutch’s madness like Bill and Pearson and Miss Grimshaw seem to be. He’s been struggling, Arthur knows, prone to sullen silence and brooding more often than not. Javier wants to live the dream that Dutch sold him ten years gone, Arthur reckons, and now he’s caught between loyalty, stubbornness, and the truth his eyes are telling him. 

A miserable place to be, Arthur knows it too well. 

But the cooler air and the moonshine they’d made off with from the Braithwaites’ stores seem to have coaxed Javier from his brooding. Temporary, more than likely, but a blessing all the same. 

Some folk are dancing - John and Abigail, Charles and Tilly, laughing and chattering as they spin around the campfire. Kieran, blushing, is stiffly leading Mary-Beth, looking about as comfortable as a man with an armful of lit TNT.

“If ya cannot dance proper then give it up, O’Driscoll,” Sean jeers. “Arthur! Gimme a dance, why don’t you. I’ll even let you lead.”  
  
Arthur extends one finger at him across the camp fire, chuckling to himself when Sean staggers back as if mortally wounded. “You’re a hard man, Morgan,” he says mournfully. He grins with the devil’s own smile and calls out to Charles, “Ain’t he, Charles? A _hard man_?”

Charles just raises his eyebrows at Sean, twirling Tilly around in his arms. He opens his mouth to call something back, but - 

A scream. Molly’s scream, Arthur realizes in the ringing silence that follows. She’s sobbing, and to his horror the next thing Arthur hears is the heavy sound of a fist meeting flesh. 

She comes tumbling out of Dutch’s tent with her dress ripped down her shoulder, and scrambles to cover her exposed breast. Her left cheek is already red and her face is wan and blotchy, and the look in her eyes is one of animal fear. She scrambles back as Dutch follows her out of the tent, shaking his hand absently.

“Maybe that will teach you to mind your damn manners when you talk to me,” he says, in a low, terrible voice that sends all the hairs on Arthur’s neck standing straight up. 

Dutch looks at the group of them, not seeming concerned in the least that they’ve seen, and says, “I’m headed out to meet Hosea in St. Denis. I’ll be back in a few days. Micah,” he calls, summoning the little weasel from his bunk, “With me. Now.” Dutch looks back over his shoulder at Molly, still lying on the ground and leaking tears, and adds, “For christsake woman, clean yourself up.”

It’s Charles that grabs John by the back of his shirt when he makes a move to follow Dutch down to the hitching post, near to vibrating with rage. Somewhere, little Jack has started sobbing, choked cries of fear and confusion. By the time Arthur looks around, Abigail and Mary-Beth and Tilly have wrapped a blanket around Molly’s shoulders; they’re crouched on the ground beside her, speaking in low, soft voices. As he watches, Abigail draws Molly’s face against her shoulder, petting down through her hair. 

Across from Arthur, Sean spits into the fire, all humor gone out of him, like a puppet with cut strings. 

“ _Mierda_ ,” Javier says, gripping the guitar by the neck. “Dutch didn’t hit her, did he? He wouldn’t have -”

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth, Javier,” Sean snaps. Misplaced anger, Arthur thinks distantly. “D’ya think she tripped?”  
  
“Enough,” Arthur says, finally pulling free from the shock. Last thing Molly needs is more men shouting. “Both of you. Enough.”

The men round the fire have been stuck in some awful paralysis for long minutes, but the women have been busy. Arthur hears Molly say,  
  
“I just wanted to talk with him - I shouldn’t’ve -”  
  
But Tilly helps her to her feet, setting Molly’s dress to rights and murmurs, “I won’t listen to you blaming yourself, Miss O’Shea. Mary-Beth, grab her things from that bastard’s tent, will you? She can bunk in with us tonight. If that’s all right, Molly?”

Molly jerks a nod, wiping her hand under her eyes. She lifts her head up and takes a deep breath, her mouth set with grim determination. “Thank you, Tilly, that’ll be fine.”  
  
Arthur looks up at Charles, who’s still watching the trail out of camp, but the sound of The Count’s hoofbeats has long faded.

*  
  


It’s an uneasy night that follows. Arthur spends long hours staring at the ceiling of his tent. He hears the women’s voices long into the night, even hears a few choked laughs among the tears. Sleep must have come for him at some point, because he seems to have blinked and the sounds of the world have changed to the early-morning chittering of birds. Mist lays heavily around the camp, pouring off the lake in lazy streaks that make the world muted and soft. For a few peaceful moments, he wonders why there’s a heavy stone laying where his stomach should be before memory returns. 

As it is, he almost misses them. Their voices are soft and the only other sound is the soft click of tack being adjusted. Arthur swings his legs out of bed and heads down to the hitching post. The girls are there, sure enough, Tilly holding the reins as Molly swings herself up onto a mustang that Javier had brought back to camp only a few days prior. The mark on her cheek has blossomed into a dark, telling bruise. 

“Morning, Arthur,” Abigail says as she passes up a pack to Molly. Mary-Beth stands beside her, wrapped tightly up in a shawl against the chill of the morning.  
  
“Morning,” he says quietly. Molly adjusts her skirts around herself calmly, but her hands are white knuckled on the reins. The saddlebags are full to overflowing he notices, and that makes the rest of the picture fall into place. 

“Hold on a sec,” he says, jogging quickly back to his tent and digging through the chest at the end of his bunk. He pulls out a heavy bag and is back down at the trail inside a minute. 

He passes the bag up to Molly, who watches him warily. He clears his throat roughly, looking out across the clearing.  
  
“Never got it to a fence,” he says, as Molly draws open the bag and pulls out a heavy gold bar. “Found it in - never mind, not important.”  
  
Molly sniffles, looking down at the bar, her pretty mouth open in shock. Arthur pats the neck of her horse for something to do with his hands. 

“I’d take it to Seamus, stable hand up at Emerald Ranch. Tell him Arthur and Hosea sent you,” he says, swallowing through the tightness in his throat. “There’s a train station up that way too, if - if that’s something you’d be lookin’ for.”

Molly shudders out a breath before nodding, decisive. She slips the gold bar back into a bag and stows it away.  
  
“Thank you, Arthur,” she says. She’s a beautiful woman, he thinks. Not necessarily kind or easy, but she lives in lurid, passionate colors that Dutch don’t even seem to see. More fool him. “You’re a better man than that bastard deserves.”

He and the girls stand at the hitching post for a long while after Molly spurs the horse down the trail, the silence laying as thick and heavy as the mist. For the first time, it sounds like something that might be true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Discussion of homophobic violence and internalized homophobia (the latter not in either of the boys). Dutch’s abuse of Molly escalates to physical violence.
> 
> This whole chapter hurts. Fuck Dutch and fuck Bill and fuck Strauss. Let me know if any additional warnings/tags should be added.
> 
> You can find me over at [tumblr](https://allthingsmustfall.tumblr.com)


	5. Chapter 5

Word from Sadie and Karen comes by telegram a week after Molly leaves, bringing a much needed gust of good news across the camp’s frayed nerves. Dutch’s return from St. Denis had once again come with a big smile and gifts, this time a bottle of wine and a velvety jewelry case held under one arm. 

But he had found her gone, of course, his mood souring so quickly it gave Arthur whiplash. Dutch was jubilant one moment, dead-eyed and furious the next. The bottle of wine had ended up smashed to pieces on the ground outside his tent, red splattered on the fine, white linen.

“Not one of you saw that bitch leave?” he’d asked quietly, casting a long, piercing stare around them. No one but Miss Grimshaw had spoken up; she’d been dead asleep during the...the bad business, and hadn’t found Molly missing until noon the next day.

“She’s a traitor, Dutch,” Miss Grimshaw had said, fussing over him busily. “Don’t you worry none about an unfaithful whore like that shrew. Now, lets get a nice hot meal into you, come on now.”

Molly had taken most of her possessions with her when she went, but Dutch found the small, forgotten things she’d left behind - one velvet glove, a two year old letter from her mother, a silver chain she’d held off pawning even when she was going hungry on the streets of New York - and burned them in the fire, staring deep into the flames as the camp moved carefully around him.

So, when Sean comes trotting back into camp one evening, waving a slip of paper over his head, Arthur feels like a ten pound weight has been lifted off his chest.

“Our girls are doin’ just fine,” Sean crows with a flourish. He lets Arthur take the slip of paper from him, slinging his arm over Arthur’s shoulders as he reads.

>   
>  ARR VALENTINE SEPT 1 **STOP** SAFE **STOP** NO REDS **STOP** COUSIN TJ DELIVERED HEALTHY BABY BOY **STOP** BAPTISM OCT 15 **STOP**

Working through the gang’s shorthand, Arthur smiles. They’d made it out to Ambarino without running into the Pinkertons, and Tilly’s tip had panned out. Girls still wouldn’t be back before mid-October, but knowing they were out there, tricking their way into working a big house, makes Arthur grin with pride. He passes the slip over to Charles, slapping Sean on the back.

“Glad they’re okay,” he says truthfully. There’s a whole heap of tension that goes out of Charles’ shoulders as he reads. Were Arthur to think on that a bit more, he might find it strange; it ain’t too surprising that the girls are doing okay, nor is it the most dangerous job they’ve ever seen. But, Arthur supposes, the whole gang is grateful for good news. 

Dutch, of course, is delighted with himself despite having had precious little to do with the plan. Arthur tells himself that the unrepentant self congratulation is worth the sunny break in his mood. 

“I told you,” Dutch booms, sucking on a cigar. Hosea sits beside him at the fire, reading through the paper. “See? Our fortunes are turning around.”

Hosea just nods, looking far more tired than Arthur has seen him in years. It was Arthur who had pulled Hosea aside the night they returned, relating yet more bad news. The words had gone into Hosea like daggers.

“He struck her?” he’d asked softly, staring out across the camp to where Dutch had been tearing apart his tent, looking for more of her things to burn. 

“Hard enough to send her stumbling outta the tent,” Arthur had said, looking down at his hands. “The girls, they - they looked after her. I just hope she’s okay, ain’t ever seen her fire a pistol, but I think Tilly gave her that Derringer of hers before she took off.”  
  
“Molly is a survivor,” Hosea had murmured, swallowing hard. “I reckon she’ll survive this too. She say where she was headed?”  
  
“Abigail reckons she’s on her way to Chicago, Molly’s got some family that’s come over up that way.” Arthur had forced a laugh, dashing his hands back through his hair. “Sounds like they’re gangsters, though.”  
  
Hosea had laughed lightly, shaking his head. “Well, she’ll feel well enough at home then. I’d put good money on her running that show inside the year.”

Now, Dutch is restless with the lack of attention. “I _said_ , our fortunes are turning around,” he says again, nudging Hosea. “What gives, Mister Matthews? I thought you’d be more excited.”  
  
“I heard you fine the first time,” Hosea says, flicking to a new page in the paper. He’s been short with Dutch all week. “I’ll just be happy to have them back here, safe and sound.”  
  
“Give it time, Hosea,” Dutch says, beatifically. “We’ll be just about ready to buy those tickets to Tahiti by the time our wayward sheep come home.”

Arthur, who’s been busying himself getting dinner from Pearson’s pot, shuts his eyes. For a moment, Dutch’s sounds like the man he’d been years ago, roguish and charming, ready to burn the world down and rebuild it from the ashes. It was unfair of Dutch to open these little windows on the man he’d once been; for a moment Arthur thinks that maybe if they could just have a run of good luck, if he worked harder, brought in more money, killed more Pinkertons, that maybe it would be enough to keep this version of the man with them forever. 

But he remembers Molly crying in the grass, the rage in Dutch’s eyes as he burned her things. When Arthur looks up, he finds Hosea watching him sadly over the top of his paper. 

“Have faith, Hosea,” Dutch is saying, headlessly clapping Hosea on the shoulder, “Have faith.”

*

Despite the fact that September has settled in snugly like a roosting hen, the heat hangs heavy in the air, cooling off only when the moon is high in the sky. Arthur is more restless than usual and finds sleep elusive. So, like a fool, he finds other things to do. 

“Ah, hell, I fold,” Arthur mutters, tossing his five of clubs and three of hearts onto the table. It’s a late night, but he ain’t the only one that can’t sleep. Pearson, Javier, and John have been taking turns clearing out his pockets all evening and Uncle’s been trying to beg a dime off him to buy back in for the last half hour. Tilly’s working on her darning in the last seat at the table; she’s been passing her time heckling them mercilessly and trying to get them to switch to dominoes. 

“Coward,” John says, laughing as he raises, but he ain’t laughing a few rounds later when Javier has bluffed them up to a ten dollar pot and raked in the whole thing with nothing but a high king and a pair of fours.

Pearson, who had folded on a pair of queens, swears and grinds out a cigarette on the table top. “Fuck you, Escuella.”

“Oh, is this all for me?” Javier says, smirking. “How kind of you, brothers.” He flips a quarter at John, who plucks it out of the air. “Why not go buy yourself something pretty, John? You could use it.”

“What about me?” Pearson asks. “You took more money off me than him.”  
  
“Ah, but nothing pretty would help you, Mister Pearson,” Javier says, still chuckling. “I would not want to raise your hopes.”

John shakes his head, smiling as he rolls the coin across the back of his knuckles. “You’re a real sonofabitch, you know that Escuella?”  
  
Javier bows his head as if John has touched him deeply. “It’s been said before,” he says solemnly, placing a hand on his heart. He flashes a smile at them. “One more hand?”

“Hell no,” John gripes, tucking away his remaining money. “I ain’t so stupid not to know when I’m beat.”  
  
“Arthur? Pearson?” Javier says, “Want to win back some of your pride?”

“Hah,” Arthur says, “Lost that long before you started counting cards, Javier.”

“Aw, you don’t mean that,” Uncle says, gesturing expansively with a bottle. “Mister Escuella here is a _rare talent_. You both oughta learn something from him.”

“Us?” Arthur says, “You busted out an hour before we did, old man. Who’s learning what, here?”  
  
Uncle tips his nose up at that, sniffing. “I just figure you boys deserve to feel like you’re winning, now and again.”

“You are a generous _pendejo_ , Uncle,” Javier assures him, scooping up the cards to shuffle them absently. 

Uncle gives him a suspicious look. “Pen-what now?” 

“ _Pendejo_ ,” Javier says, straight-faced. Arthur’s spent enough time around Javier by this point to know for _certain_ that his next words ain’t true, “It’s a Spanish word for - ah - respected elder. Wise man.”

“Why _thank you_ , Javier,” Uncle says, pushing himself to his feet, swaying a bit as he stands. “Pen-day-ho. Huh.” He points his bottle at Javier. “That’s a beautiful language you people have.”  
  
“You’re a mean bastard,” Tilly says lightly once Uncle has staggered off to bed. Javier bursts out laughing, choking on a sip of beer.  
  
“You know that fool is going to tell the first Mexican he meets he’s a respected _pendejo_ among his people,” John says, laughing helplessly.

“What’re you talking about?” Pearson asks, frowning. “Some Mexican down in Rhodes spat that at me last week, didn’t sound so kind then.”

That only makes them laugh harder, and then louder still when Pearson starts barking questions at them, like a child repeating a question until they get an answer. 

“Ah, to hell with all four of you,” he finally grumbles, tucking away the last few coins Javier had left him with, oozing wounded pride. 

“God, this is what I missed,” Javier says, still smiling. “It’s been a shitty few weeks, yes?”  
  
Arthur nods, inspecting the beer in his hand. “Dutch ain’t dealing with Molly leavin’ too well, I think.”

At that, Pearson turns his head to spit, mouth twisted in a sneer. “I can’t believe she run out on him like that, after all he’s done for her.”

Arthur and Tilly exchange a careful look, but she says nothing, going back to her sewing with renewed intensity. “Well,” Arthur says, “He was pretty rough with her, Pearson. You saw that.”

From the corner of his eye, Arthur sees that Javier has gone still and quiet, beer half raised to his mouth. Javier loves Dutch like a father, Arthur knows - he and Arthur are both damned in that regard. But even with that love, that bone-deep loyalty, it would take a fool to not see how far Dutch has fallen from the man who once gave them a home, a family. If they’re just following some half-crazed shadow of that visionary, then all that blood on their hands...

Arthur drinks deeply from his beer, glancing at Javier as he tips his head back. There are ghosts hanging behind his eyes - Arthur knows the look. He sees it in his shaving mirror most mornings.

But for Pearson, there’s no such introspection. He spits again, disgusted, and waves his beer at Arthur’s face. 

“Ask me, that dumb cunt had it coming,” he says sagely. “Fucking uppity bitch was always turning her nose up at - ”

Arthur has barely processed Pearson’s words before Tilly is out of her seat, backhanding Pearson so sharply that the crack seems to echo around camp. Pearson’s hat tumbles to the ground.

She shakes out her hand, sewing left forgotten on the ground. “Simon Pearson, I knew you were a dog, I just didn’t know you were an _animal_ ,” she spits out.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, woman?” Pearson shouts, one had clasped to his cheek. Tilly storms back to her tent without so much as a look tossed back at them. “Hey! I’m talking to you, you black bitch -”

John reaches out and drags Pearson back down into his seat with a vicious tug on his coat. “Sit down, you fucking idiot,” he hisses.  
  
“What are you going to do, Pearson?” Javier says, darkly, "Teach her a lesson for lipping off to you like that?”  
  
“Maybe somebody should,” Pearson snaps, eyes glassy with tears. Arthur knows how much a slap like that can sting. Colm had backhanded him more than once, just so he could laugh when Arthur’s eyes welled up involuntarily. 

“It’s what Dutch would do, wouldn’t he?” John says, mocking. “You could say she _deserved_ it.”

“Leave it, Marston,” Arthur says sharply, just as Javier digs out his Bowie knife, unsheathing it to dig under his nails.

“Mister Pearson,” Javier drawls, not looking up. “Maybe it’s time you go to bed, hm? I think maybe your mouth is still talking but your brain’s already asleep.”

“Oh, fuck off, you god damn _greaser,_ ” Pearson says, rounding on Javier. He looks for a moment like he’s got more to say, but Javier tosses a glance up at him, steady and slow. Arthur’s heard the story about how Javier one made a man piss his pants with a look before - more times than he can count, actually - but this is the first time he thinks there’s any truth to it. Pearson’s mouth clicks shut and he goes pale. Blustering, he scoops his hat off the ground, pointedly brushing dirt off the worn fur. “God damn all of you,” he mutters, but he doesn’t stick around long enough to look Javier in the face again.

A few tense seconds pass in silence before Arthur sighs heavily, throwing back half his beer in one go. “Jesus Christ, that man’s tryna get himself killed.”  
  
Javier sneers, stowing away the knife in short, precise movements. “I should slit that asshole’s throat, but then we’d have to find out what kind of cooking Marston here knows.”

John rolls his eyes, digging a cigarette out of a crumpled pack. “Only a coward raises his hand to a woman,” he says, cupping his hand around a match to puff it to life, “Dutch drilled that into us himself. I don’t know what’s going on in his head these days! You know well as I do that he was gonna leave you with those O’Driscoll bastards - “  
  
“Shut yer damn mouth, Marston,” Arthur hisses. “You’re talking too loud, for Christ’s sake.”

John gives him a petulant look, arms crossed over his chest, but the damage is already done.

Javier sits back in his chair, looking halfway between anger and disbelief. “Fuck you, Marston,” he says, lowly. “That’s not true.”

Arthur understands - lord knows he does. Dutch has been erratic of late, unpredictable and snappish. It doesn’t go even a little bit to justifying him raising his hand to Molly, but it matches that awful, violent temper he’s been nursing. But that rabid streak don’t account for the idea he’d abandon Arthur, his top lieutenant, his eldest son, to the clutches of the men he’s sworn to kill. No, that act hadn’t been violence. That, Arthur thinks with difficulty, was just indifference. Betrayal.

Javier looks to Arthur for support. Arthur wants to reassure him, if only to bring that easy smile back to Javier’s face, but the words die in his throat. When Arthur just looks away, Javier leans over the table, voice dropping into a whisper. “It’s _not true_ . Arthur - he would have sent us for you, if he’d known. He was - “ He flounders a moment, gesturing. “Making plans, making sure we could get you out safely.”  
  
“Which is it,” John says quietly, “Dutch didn’t know or Dutch was just plannin’?”

Javier curses colorfully under his breath, shaking his head in a furious _no_ . “We wouldn’t have left you,” he says sharply, but there’s something in his voice that’s just - pleading. Desperate for it to be true, even when he knows it isn’t. Arthur meets his eyes, sees the grief there, and that just makes his chest ache all the sharper. God damn Dutch and what he was doing to them. “We wouldn’t have. I swear it, Arthur.”  
  
“I know,” Arthur says tiredly, because it’s true. Javier would have gone in himself to drag Arthur back out of hell, would have probably happily died doing it. In many ways, Javier is the best of them. Dutch might do his wild dreaming, but Javier _believes._ “I know you wouldn’t’ve, I do.” 

Arthur don’t have much in the way of choices when it comes to Dutch, there’s too many debts that will never be repaid. But Javier, who’s been fighting real bastards all his life, with all he has, is a better man than Dutch. He could strike out on his own without a break in his stride. Arthur knows this, deep in the wick of him. Bad folk do terrible things with the loyalty of good men, he knows that too. Maybe Javier will see that the fire in his belly burns brighter than the borrowed light cast by Dutch. 

Arthur certainly hopes he does, and soon. 

“You’re a good man, Javier,” he says, standing. “Don’t let anyone make you forget that.”  
  
*

Two days later, Tilly’s still not talking to Pearson, but most of the camp’s women only tolerate the man at the best of times, so it ain’t that far off normal. Javier still looks hunted; Arthur has seen him staring at Dutch across the fire at night, his expression vacant and his thoughts turned deeply inward. If there’s a right thing to say to soothe him, Arthur don’t know what it is. So, he settles for clapping him on the shoulder in the mornings, and pestering him to play his guitar come evening. 

It ain’t much, but it’s the only thing Arthur can think to do. 

Arthur comes back into camp one morning after spending the night creeping around the Braithwaite’s plantation like a god damned cupid for those two star-crossed fools. He ain’t even sure how he let himself get drawn into their nonsense, except that Beau Gray had looked at him so pleadingly, talking about his love for this woman who the whole world was telling him to ignore in lieu of duty, and Arthur had thrown his hands up, muttering, “Fine, fine, I’ll do it, you great damned fool.”

It’s late enough in the morning that half the men are already out for the day. When Arthur rides up to the hitching post, he finds little Jack up on his tiptoes, trying to brush out Old Boy’s mane.  
  
“Hi Uncle Arthur,” Jack chirps, his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth as he drags the brush down the stallion’s neck. 

“Hey there, Jack,” Arthur says, dismounting and setting about untacking Roisin. “You tryna put Kieran out of a job?”  
  
“I’m _helping_ ,” Jack insists. “Me and momma and pa are goin’ to a fair!”

Arthur raises his eyebrows, looking over Old Boy. Sure enough, he’s tacked up with more gear than John usually takes with him, a few heavy satchels in addition to John’s usual rifle and saddle bags. Beside him, Abigail’s filly is similarly set up. 

“A fair?”  
  
“Yup! Down in Sandenny.” Jack turns to him with a big smile. “Momma said there’s lions.”  
  
Arthur thinks of that damn fool Margaret and his collection of ‘exotic beasts’ and rolls his eyes. “That so? Hmm.”  
  
He’d seen the fliers hung up the last time he’d swung through St. Denis. Seems like it will be a typical agricultural fair, prizes for steers and gords and cross stitch, much like any other county fair across the midlands. Apparently there's gonna be fireworks too, and enough candy and sweets to make a boy of Jack’s age beside himself with joy.

“Morning Arthur!” Abigail calls, coming down the trail with John at her side, both of them carrying extra bags. Uncle trails behind them, looking a little less drunk and a little more cleaned up than usual. 

“Hey folks,” Arthur says. “You’s all going down to St. Denis?” He gives Uncle a significant look and glances back to John and Abigail. “Taking all the children with you, I see.”  
  
“Ain’t like that, Arthur,” Uncle says airily, grunting as he swings up onto Nell. “I’m just seeing these fine folks down to the big city.” He taps his temple with a finger, significantly. “Got a few leads to chase down as well, if you must know.”

Abigail rolls her eyes, bending down to lift Jack up onto her saddle. “I saw those fliers in Rhodes the last time the girls and I went down for provisions. I thought, with everything that’s been going on…”  
  
“Boy deserves to do something fun,” John says gruffly. He holds the reins of Abigail’s horse as she swings up in the saddle behind Jack. “Abigail, Uncle, why don’t you head down to the road. I’ll catch up in a minute.”

After Jack dutifully says goodbye at his mother’s prompting, the pair heads down the trail out of camp. John doesn’t say anything until they’ve rounded the bend, out of sight. 

“We won’t be long,” he says, glancing over at Arthur.

Arthur shrugs. “Dutch know you’re going?”  
  
John nods shortly. “Sure. I told him. Figure, might be a few weeks. Jack can’t ride all day yet, so getting down and back is gonna take time. Think we might stop off a bit on the way, take him to do some fishing and hunting. The fair might only be good for a day or two, but - “ He rolls his shoulders. “Abigail ain’t slept in a real bed in a real long time, and I got enough coin to get us a nice room for a few days. Get her a bath in a real tub for once, and a meal she didn’t cook herself over the campfire.”  
  
It’s a strange moment, standing in the tall grass with John goddamn Marston talking something like sense for once. Arthur had spent long months wanting to throttle the man, bitching over the fact that a good woman loved him, that he had a strong, healthy boy who wanted no more from the world than his father’s love. He’d given up hope that John would see sense, which had only let the ache of John’s betrayal fester in his chest. 

It makes Arthur look at him now with something like respect. Seems like a few weeks is too long to spend in a city, but he can’t fault the man for trying. “Good,” Arthur says roughly. “That’s good, John.” He hesitates for a moment, before adding gruffly, “Proud of ya.”  
  
John just rolls his eyes, shoving at Arthur’s shoulder. “Oh shut up, you old woman. You gonna get watery on me here?”  
  
“Nah, your hide ain’t anything to shed a tear over,” Arthur says, chuckling. “You take care of them. And Uncle too - you leave that old bastard outta your sight too long, he’s gonna land himself in a heap of trouble, and Uncle usually finds the sort of trouble that loves company.”

“Yeah, yeah,” John says, “I know.” He starts to saddle up, but stops before swinging into the saddle. He reaches a hand out to Arthur to shake, tentative, like he’s not sure Arthur won’t smack it away. That makes Arthur’s chest clench; maybe he’s been riding the kid too hard. They’d grown up together, sometimes it was hard to tell where the line was when they were intent on giving each other hell. He grasps John’s hand tightly and is surprised when John drags him in for a brief, tight embrace, patting his shoulder roughly. 

“You’re my brother,” John says, releasing him, tipping his head low to avoid Arthur’s eyes. “I - I know we ain’t always acted it, but - “  
  
Arthur sighs. “Course we act like it, you idiot.” He grins at John when he shoots him a look. “Ain’t no other worthless bastard in the world that I’d choose as my blood.”

“Fuck off, Morgan,” John says, but he’s laughing as he swings up into the saddle. 

“Now get on outta here,” Arthur says, waving him off. “Buy the kid an ice cream while you’re down there. And keep him away from the damn lions!”

 _  
_ **  
** *****

The gunsmith in Rhodes gives Arthur the willies, ain’t no mistaking that. It has passed into new hands since Arthur sprung that poor boy from the cellar, and they got some young girl working the till. It makes it a bit easier to get through buying ammo, but Arthur still tries to avoid looking at the basement door. 

“You planning a bank heist, mister?” the clerk asks as Arthur sets down a few boxes of shotgun shells and rifle ammo on the counter.  
  
“Nah,” he says, smiling, “Need low calibur for that, Miss, revolvers for preference.”

The clerk snorts, ringing him up with a smile. “You got a funny sense of humor.”  
  
“Don’t I know it,” Arthur says, tipping his hat at her. She blushes, laughing behind her hand. Being generous, she’s maybe 16 years old. More a child than not, Arthur thinks with a rueful smile. He’d thought himself a man at that age, but this girl looks barely old enough to have stopped tying ribbons in her hair. 

“Thank you kindly, Miss,” he says, stowing the ammo in his satchel. “You have a good -”

“God dammit, Morgan, you’re a pain in the ass to find,” Micah says, banging opening the shop’s front door. He’s been looking more and more dreadful as the weeks slid by, greasy and skinny, yellow eyes, now, to match his yellow teeth. Right now, he looks like he’s fixing to start a brawl with Arthur, but as soon as his eyes slide over the girl behind the counter, his demeanor changes, like a switch being flipped. “Hello there, Miss,” he oozes, giving her a grin wide enough for her to get a good look at the rotten gaps where a few of his teeth should be. “And how are you this fine, fine morning?"  
  
“Git,” Arthur barks, grabbing him by the back of his jacket. “Sorry miss, you have a good day!”

He drags Micah outside like a kitten, giving him a shove off the shop’s steps. “That girl is a child,” Arthur says, watching as Micah regains his footing. 

“Fuck you,” Micah says, coughing into his fist. When he drops his hand, Arthur can see blood mixed in with the mucus. He wipes it roughly on his thigh. “That’s her decision to make, ain’t it.”

“Any woman that _decides_ to choose your stinking carcass needs an asylum more than she needs the quickest five minutes of her life.”

“You shut your mouth, Arthur!” Micah says. He puts Arthur in the mind of a wet cat, pathetic, hopping mad, acting like it could take down bison to soothe its wounded ego. He coughs again - this time it goes on for a while, and he digs out a noisome handkerchief to spit into. 

“Ah, for the love of God, ain’t you seen a doctor yet?”

“No,” Micah says, hacking. “Only doctor in this damn town is that uppity darkie. What the hell’s he know about doctoring?”

“Sight more than you,” Arthur mutters, walking backwards with his hands up. “You stay away from me, god damn.”

“Man at the general store set me up with something that’ll set me right in no time, but your concern is just so fucking _touching_ , brother,” Micah says, all false sincerity. There’s blood on his teeth too. 

“Ugh, good lord, what the hell you want, anyway?”

Micah grins. “Dutch is waiting for us at the saloon. He wants to talk to you - we got big plans.”

“You always sayin’ that,” Arthur sighs. “Ain’t been true yet.”

The Parlour House is quiet so early in the day. If there is a place that embodies fallen grace, Arthur figures this is a good contender; the drapes are sunbleached, the wallpaper faded and curling up in the corners. Just a few old timers are gathered around, smoking and playing cards. 

“Arthur, my boy!” Dutch says, spinning around on a barstool. “Micah, what took you so long?”  
  
“He was - “  
  
“Doesn’t matter,” Dutch says, clapping his hand onto Arthur’s shoulder, summoning an echo of pain out of his wound, “You’re here now. Come on son, we have business to discuss.”

“Wonderful,” Arthur says tiredly, but he lets himself be drawn along to a booth by the window, sliding in across from the pair of them. Dutch lights up his cigar and waves at one of the working girls.  
  
“Susie-May,” he says, “Would you be so good as to get us a round of your finest whiskey, there’s a girl.”  
  
“Thought we was saving that money for Tahiti,” Arthur says, watching as Dutch blows smoke rings.  
  
“We are, Arthur, we _are_ . But, what is a man that doesn’t enjoy life on occasion?” He points the cigar at Arthur. “An _animal_ , that’s what.”  
  
“I suppose,” Arthur drawls, looking out the big front windows. There’s a line of dust coming up on the road into town, somebody’s pushing their horses hard. 

“You’re awful hard to hear up on that high horse of yours,” Micah says, snickering. Susie-May returns with their tumblers, laughing low in her throat when Dutch reached out to pat her bottom.

“You boys need _anything_ else, you just let me know,” she says. Arthur figures her shirt is low enough that if her chemise shifted by a fraction of an inch, he’d be able to see the pink curve of her nipples. It surprises him to realize that there ain’t any kind of passion in the thought. Mostly she just looks cold.

“To our fortunes,” Dutch says, clinking their glasses together.

Arthur tosses back the whiskey in one shot and Dutch rolls his eyes. “It’s a _sipping_ drink, Arthur. Susie-May, another for my ill-bred friend, here.”

“Figure that ill-breeding is on you, Dutch,” Arthur says as the girl drops off another drink.

“Hell, ain’t my blood in your veins,” Dutch says, laughing. Arthur twitches, sipping the whiskey to soothe the sudden, sharp barb beneath his breast bone. “I just had to work with what I was given.”  
  
“And a fine job you did boss,” Micah says, raising his glass, shooting Arthur a greasy smile. “To Arthur and his good health.”  
  
Arthur clinks his glass against theirs; it was easier than putting up a fight. 

“Now, down to business,” Dutch says, “This business with the Braithwaites and Grays is getting so -”  
  
“That’s Hosea,” Arthur says, looking out the window. The riders that had been kicking up a storm coming into town are visible now, and there is no mistaking Silver Dollar and Hosea - sure enough, that’s Javier coming in hot behind him. They’d gone up to Emerald Ranch the day before yesterday to sell off some jewelry. 

“So it is,” Dutch says, frowning. The two men hitch up their horses outside the saloon; Arthur can already tell the set of Hosea’s mouth is grim.

“Hosea,” Dutch says, when the pair comes through the door. “Wasn’t expecting you back for another few days. To what do we owe the pleasure?”  
  
“We need to talk,” Hosea says, sliding onto the bench along Arthur. Javier pulls up a chair and collapses into it. They’re both covered in dirt and sweat; must’ve been riding like that for a while.

“What’s wrong?” Arthur says quietly. “Is it the camp, are we - “  
  
“No, no, nothing so bad as that,” Hosea says, and then sighs. “Not yet.”  
  
“Pinkertons,” Javier says quietly. “Not here - up at Emerald Ranch. Seamus said they were sniffing around the ranch two weeks ago.”  
  
Arthur closes his eyes, feeling a ten pound weight added to that hook in his chest. Emerald Ranch a few weeks past; the Pinkertons could be on the gang’s doorstep by now, if they were lucky.  
  
Dutch takes a long pull from his cigar and a sip of whiskey. He looks like Javier just mentioned that it might rain tomorrow. “He talk?”

“What? Seamus?” Hosea says, “No. Least he says he didn’t, and other people up there said the Pinkertons went off looking disappointed. But that’s not the point, Dutch, Emerald Ranch is too damn near -”

“It’s plenty far away, Hosea,” Dutch says, spreading his hands gently, like he does to The Count when he’s in a mood. “Folks say they went away unhappy, then what do we got to worry about?”  
  
Hosea sags back into his chair, dumbfounded. “You can’t be serious.”

“It was probably that whore of yours that run off,” Micah says, sagely. “Bet they fixed her up real nice for giving them a few pointers.”  
  
Arthur is sure that much isn’t true; Molly had sent word to Tilly by telegram just yesterday; she was safe in Chicago, received by her cousins with a hero’s welcome. 

“Molly hasn’t been gone long enough,” Hosea snaps, “They were there before she left. And that girl is no rat, Mister Bell. Mind your goddamn manners.”

Micah toasts his tumbler to Hosea, grinning. “My _deepest_ apologies,” he drawls. “Didn’t realize we had a detective on our hands.”  
  
“Honestly, Hosea,” Dutch says, “You worry too much. We’re _safe_ here, this I know. And - as I was just saying to Arthur, we have lucked into some very helpful information. Enough with these rednecks and their yankee gold. We’re destined for better things.”  
  
“Are you being serious?” Hosea hisses, leaning across the table. “You want to talk about a job right now? Andrew goddamn Milton was a day’s ride from our camp and -”  
  
“I won’t be having you wailing like an old woman, Hosea, for christsake!” Dutch says, grinning at him, untouched. “This is the way of our lives. We bound away towards freedom, that poor monstrosity of a man barks at our heels. All we can do is keep on sprinting towards our promised land.” He gestures again with his cigar. “ _Tahiti_.”

Hosea just stares at him, open mouthed. Arthur glances at Javier and finds the man blanked face, staring at the table. 

“We must keep going,” Dutch says, unheeding, “This is our current lot in life, old friend. To break free of those shackles, we must fight. We must steal. We must live as god intended; freely and unafraid.”  
  
“What the hell are you doing Dutch,” Hosea says. It’s not really a question. Hosea just sounds so tired. He digs a handkerchief out of his breast pocket, wiping his brow.

“One more job, Hosea,” Dutch says in a voice that’s almost tender. “One more, and we’ll be farming those mango trees.”  
  
What breaks Arthur’s heart more than anything is the conviction in those words. Whatever lies Dutch is telling them, at least the first person he fooled was himself. 

“I been down to St. Denis,” Micah says, ignoring Hosea’s glare when he pipes up. “There’s a real pretty bank down there, Mister Matthews. It looks real fine.”  
  
“You want to rob a _bank_ ,” Hosea says slowly, staring at Dutch. “A bank in _St. Denis_ .”  
  
“Big men die as easy as little men,” Dutch says philosophically. “Same is true for banks of all kinds.”  
  
As wrong as it was stupid, Arthur thinks. You couldn’t shoot a god damn safe in the head.

“We don’t even have enough men right now. We need Karen on a job like that - John too.” Hosea is staring at Dutch hard, throat working. “The goddamn Pinkertons are too close-”  
  
Dutch slams his hand on the table, a loud clap in the almost silent saloon. It rattles their drinks. When Arthur darts his eyes around the room, all five patrons and the working girl are staring. 

“Enough,” Dutch says, his voice gone low and dangerous. He stares at Hosea across the table and takes a few deep breaths, marginally relaxing. “That is enough of that, Hosea. Our wayward sheep will return to us in short order. And when they do, we will have a job awaiting them. Is that understood?”

There ain’t much to say after that. These flares of Dutch’s temper set something off in Arthur’s gut, raising goosebumps on his arms. It’s like it ain’t the same man behind the windows, like some stranger’s got the reins to Dutch’s ego and he’s whipping the horses into a frenzy. 

“Don’t worry,” Hosea says to Javier and Arthur once Dutch and Micah have paid up and left. They’ve been sitting like that for a few silent minutes, just listening to the sound of the building settling. Hosea takes a deep breath and nods to himself. “I’ll deal with Dutch. He’ll see sense.”

Well, Arthur thinks, sliding out of the booth, there was a first time for everything. 

As Arthur leaves to unhitch the horses, Javier pulls Hosea aside for a moment, their heads bent together, voices pitched too low for Arthur to hear. It don’t last more than a few seconds, but Hosea’s face goes soft and relieved as Javier speaks, like a man receiving a gift he’d given up on wanting. Javier’s expression is far more closed off, but if there is anything there to read there, it’s grim determination. 

“What was that all about?” Arthur asks as they ride out of town. 

Javier doesn’t look at him, eyes focused somewhere beyond the horizon. Eventually, he says, “Just made my mind up about something, brother. Never you mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been freaking haunting me, so I hope it reads okay. Sometimes, the only way out is through. 
> 
> Thanks kindly to [my-funky-little-cowboy](https://my-funky-little-cowboy.tumblr.com/) for looking this over!
> 
> If anyone is paying attention at home, the chapter count keeps creeping upwards because I am unable to predict chapter length with anything like precision. However, I think it will stay at 10 - we'll see how the next few chapters go...
> 
> And because it's been discussed quite a bit lately in fandom, I want to do well by POC characters and I'm making this a priority as I'm writing. If you think I've misstepped, please let me know. I want to do better. 
> 
> Find me over at [allthingsmustfall](https://allthingsmustfall.tumblr.com/)
> 
> EDIT: I ALMOST FORGOT. HC for Molly is that she essentially becomes the head of the Chicago Irish mob and rules competently and viciously for many years. Please give me 1920's prohibition-era Molly with a long slim cigarette holder and a plush mahogany and leather speakeasy, where she is treated like the god damn queen she is.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm snowed in, bored, and cold, so please enjoy an early update!

September starts to slip by like water. The heat is blunting, and with it some of Dutch’s more ludicrous ideas. Hosea has been working double and triple time to rein him in, but with Sadie, Karen, and John outta camp, even Dutch seems to accept they don’t have enough guns for a god damn daylight robbery. However, with fewer targets, Dutch’s bloviating is getting near on insufferable. 

Arthur is sitting sketching in his journal early one morning, trying to decide between a few different tasks he’s been meaning to do, when he overhears Dutch hassling Mary-Beth in her tent. 

“So, Miss Gaskill,” Dutch says, dressed up extra fine in defiance of the lingering heat. “What sort of stories are you writing these days?”  
  
“Oh,” Mary-Beth says, “Nothing impressive. Just - silly little things, really.”

“Romances?” Dutch says, in a sly, rumbling voice. Across the camp, Arthur notes, Kieran has stopped seeing to the horses, watching the pair of them hawkishly. 

“Oh - uh, no,” Mary-Beth says, nervousness creeping into her voice. “Just. You know. Adventure stories, that’s all, Mister Van der Linde.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Dutch says, spreading his arms expansively. “I’d say romance is quite the adventure, wouldn’t you? Both have a way of making a man’s - or a woman’s - pulse race. Both got a fair bit of tension that makes things interesting, hm?”  
  
Mary-Beth has shut up her book, tucking the pen Arthur tracked down for her away. “Uh, I’m sure I don’t -”

“Mary-Beth!” Tilly calls, striding across the camp. “Where have you been? I thought we were going down to St. Denis today.”  
  
“I’m sorry Tilly,” Mary-Beth says, standing. “I was lookin’ for you before. You all ready now?”

Tilly jerks her head in a nod, turning a bright smile on Dutch. “I’m so sorry, Dutch. Me and Mary-Beth have plans down in the city. Is there anything you need for the camp?”  
  
The look on Dutch’s face is stormy, but he manages to recover after a moment. “No, no, Miss Jackson. I’m sure we’ll all be fine here.” He bows to the both of them, plucking Mary-Beth’s hand out of the air and brushing a kiss across her knuckles. “You two ladies take care now.”  
  
“We’ll be fine,” Tilly says, in a strange, flat voice. She notices Arthur watching them and adds, “In fact, I was hoping Arthur here could escort us down. My horse threw a shoe last night, so I was thinking we could take one of the wagons.”

Arthur had seen Tilly’s mount an hour ago when he’d taken out the hay and it wasn’t missing a shoe, but he just shrugs. “Course, I’d be happy to.”

Tilly and Kieran help him hitch up the horses to one of the covered wagons. They’re short some Shires, so it’s Roisin and the mare that Mary-Beth’s been riding; not ideal, but enough to get the three of them to and fro without trouble. Kieran fusses over Mary-Beth as he helps her in the back of the wagon until she swats his hands away. 

“I will be _fine_ , Mister Duffy,” she says, in that private, indulgent way women have. She smooths his hair, giving him a little peck on the cheek in the privacy of the wagon. “Arthur will see us down and back just fine.”  
  
“You will, won’t you?” Kieran says to Arthur a few moments later, as the girls make themselves comfortable in the back and Arthur picks up the reins. He looks frazzled, which ain’t unusual in him, but he don’t usually have the spine to pester anyone around camp. He’s wringing his hands together. 

“Yes, Kieran, I will,” Arthur says, long-suffering. He looks over Kieran’s shoulder to where Dutch is holding court with Micah and Bill, gesturing with a bottle of beer despite the early hour. “Listen. You just - be careful of Dutch, right? You and Miss Gaskill ain’t so clever as you think you are.”  
  
Kieran blushes bright red, stammering out a denial, but Mary-Beth just reaches out to smack the back of Arthur’s head. “Like you’re one to talk, Arthur,” she says, which Arthur tries real hard not to think too much about. “C’mon now, we’re wasting daylight.”

They’re outta camp a few hours before Arthur speaks up, glancing back over his shoulder at the pair of them. “You wanna tell me why we’re really taking the wagon rather than riding?”  
  
The girls exchange a look before Mary-Beth responds. “I’m just not feeling well, is all, Arthur.” She smiles at him. “It’s easier on my stomach in the wagons.”  
  
“Y’alright?”  
  
“Oh, I’m sure it’s nothin’. Just don’t wanna worry anyone round camp, is all.”

“Yes,” Tilly says, “And Dutch is doing an awful lot of worrying ‘bout you these days.”  
  
Arthur had noticed that too, but it ain’t terribly new. Dutch had been sniffing around Mary-Beth for months now, ignoring the frenzied pitch it gave to Molly’s temper. But there ain’t nothing to say about it that would help, so he chooses to stay quiet, urging the horses into a nice little trot that ate up the miles. 

“You don’t think the Pinkerton’s are getting close, do you Arthur?” Mary-Beth says a little while later. The girls have been trading the same stale gossip back and forth for a while now, and this topic isn’t much of an improvement. 

“I doubt it,” Arthur says, more confident than he feels. “Dutch figures they just got lucky, snooping around Emerald Ranch, and Seamus swears up and down he didn’t tell ‘em nothing.”  
  
“Strange they’re so far East,” Tilly says.

“Ain’t like we had much of a choice of where to go,” Arthur says, but he knows Tilly’s right. They should have had weeks yet before they got as close as that. 

“I hope you’re right,” Mary-Beth murmurs, looking out the back of the wagon blankly. “We need a break.”  
  
“Ain’t that the truth,” Arthur sighs. “You ladies just be careful in St. Denis, you hear? Keep your head down, don’t make a fuss.”  
  
Tilly snorts. “You mean like you and Lenny done in Valentine?”  
  
“That was _different_ ,” Arthur says, affecting wounded pride. “We was _bonding._ ”  
  
“To what?” May-Beth says, grinning. “A whiskey bottle?”

“You just think you’re so clever, don’t you?” Arthur asks, but Mary-Beth and Tilly are both smiling, and he’s grinning himself. 

It’s noontime by the time the skyline creeps into view, and Tilly produces a simple packed meal that they eat as they come into the city limits. The fair is in full swing on the outskirts of town, carnival barkers shouting all manner of promises from their kaleidoscope colored pedestals, prize animals being moved along between the swell of people. 

“Think we should try and track down Abigail and John?” Arthur calls back to the girls.

“Don’t you dare, Arthur Morgan!” Mary-Beth says, laughing. “He’s bein’ so romantic! You let them have their fun.”  
  
“Fine, fine. But I bet if there was a jackass contest, they could enter in Uncle and walk away with a blue ribbon for it. Hell, John could probably take second place,” he says, mostly just to hear them laugh. “So where we headed? I assume you ladies actually do have business here?” 

“There’s a tailor over on Almonaster Avenue,” Tilly says. “We’ll stop off there first.”  
  
“What you need new clothes for? What you got is fine.”  
  
“I’ll take advice from you when you got more than two shirts and a change of drawers,” Tilly says, climbing out to sit beside him. “We just want to get some new cloaks. We weren’t able to take all the winter stuff with us, getting out of Blackwater.”  
  
“Winter cloaks?” Arthur says. “I’ll eat my hat if it gets cold enough to need them down here, even in February. And that’s months off, besides.”  
  
He almost mentions Tahiti, the year round summer that Dutch insists is coming their way, but it feels like a lie in his mouth. 

“Never hurts to be prepared,” Mary-Beth says airily. 

Arthur mutters a few choice things about women and their obsession with clothes, but it’s mostly just to make the girls laugh and swat at him. He’s grinning as he pulls up in front of the shop. “Alright then, ladies, I’ll leave you to it,” he says, helping Mary-Beth down out of the wagon.  
  
“Oh no, Mister Morgan. You’re our chaperone, today,” Mary-Beth says, and drags him into the fine, gilded shop along with them.

The next few hours make Arthur wish for the O’Driscoll’s tender care. The suspicious clerk sets him up in a plush leather chair and Arthur offers his opinion on colors and cuts until he’s ready to start begging for reprieve.  
  
“I swear to god, I been treated more gently by lawmen,” he mutters when the girls are finally done with their shopping. They’re picking up far more than just two cloaks; looks like they’re shopping on behalf of all the other women and half the men, besides. The clerk gives him a startled look, and Tilly treads heavily on Arthur’s foot.

“Excuse my brother,” Mary-Beth says, handing over a fat stack of bills, “He’s got a terrible sense of humor.”  
  
“Indeed,” the clerk says, hurriedly handing over the wrapped bags. “Good day,” he says, but as far as Arthur can tell, his tone means “get the hell out of my shop, you reprobates.” 

“Please tell me you harpies are done,” Arthur says, stowing the packages in the wagon. Tilly just laughs at him. 

“One more stop, you big baby. There’s a doctor down the road a ways. We shouldn’t be long in there.”  
  
“What you need a doctor for? Mary-Beth’s stomach?”  
  
“Don’t be nosy, Mister Morgan,” Mary-Beth says, digging through Tilly’s bag for a snack. “It ain’t becoming.”

At the doctor’s office, the girls leave Arthur outside with the horses. “To protect our purchases,” Tilly had said, like any man would be fool enough to steal lined, woolen cloaks when the temperature rarely got below 80 degrees at night.

It ain’t awful, Arthur admits to himself. He ducks into a saloon long enough to buy himself a beer and a meat pie, adding helpings for Mary-Beth and Tilly to his order after a moment’s thought. He sees to the horses as evening comes down on the city, smoke turning the sky a brilliant orange over the train yard. 

He even spends a blissful few minutes breaking the nose of some damn idiot preaching about eugenics, pissing on his scattered pamphlets while the man raises seven kinds of hell, rolling around on the cobblestones and clutching his face. A pair of coppers, watching the whole thing with mild interest, only call out to him once Arthur has unzipped his jeans.

“Keep that damn thing holstered,” one calls, gesturing at Arthur’s groin. “There might be ladies present.”

“Awful sorry there, officers,” Arthur drawls sunnily. “I’ll just be on my way.”

“You look pleased with yourself,” Tilly says when they reappear half an hour later. “What the hell did you do?”  
  
“Ain’t I allowed to have a good day?” Arthur says. “I got dinner for yous. Everything okay I hope?”  
  
Mary-Beth has been quiet as they packed up to head out, but she nods after a moment. “Um. Yes. Everything’s just fine. Here, Tilly, you take my beer. My stomach’s not feeling up to it.”

By the time they’re leaving town, the fair’s sending up fireworks, popping in brilliant, shattered colors across the evening sky.

“Would you look at that,” Arthur murmurs, watching light burst over their heads. Tilly has taken up place beside him, holding a shotgun across her lap. It’ll be hours yet before they’re back to camp, and the night emboldens all manner of bandits, no matter how modest their little wagon appears. 

“It’s lovely,” Tilly says, smiling with her face turned up to the sky. He hasn’t seen her smile near enough, lately, and it warms him to see the simple joy on her face.  
  
“Bet little Jack loves it,” Arthur says. “Hey, Mary-Beth, take a look see at this!”  
  
When she doesn’t respond, he looks back over his shoulder. They hardly been traveling half an hour now, but she’s already curled up and deeply asleep, her head pillowed on Tilly’s pack.

“Leave her rest,” Tilly says, “It’s been a busy day.”

“I suppose it has,” Arthur says, watching the pop and sparkle of the fireworks as much as he does the road ahead. “I don’t think I could ever get down on paper what this looks like right here. Y’think Charles has seen anything like this before?”  
  
He doesn’t rightly know why the thought occurs to him, except that it’s a beautiful sight, and it’s something he’s looking forward to sharing with the man. They’d both been busy, these last few weeks, and they ain’t been alone since that day at the lake. Arthur misses having him at his side while he’s out running errands, but there’s been too much to do not to split up the work between them. He flushes, embarrassed, but Tilly only makes a quiet noise of wondering herself, her face still tipped up at the stars. 

“You heard more from Karen and Sadie yet?” he asks, mostly just to change the topic. If more news had come through, it would already have been shared with the camp.

“Nah, but they’ll be fine, Karen’s scouted banks before,” Tilly says, yawning. “They know what they’re about.”

Arthur pauses, urging the horses into a faster pace once they’re through the worst of the crowds. “I thought you said it was a big house?”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“Before, when they was leaving,” Arthur says, slowly. “They said they were going to case some mansion, not a bank.”  
  
Tilly just blinks at him for a moment before yawning again. “I’m sorry, Arthur. I’m just getting so tired. They’re bankers, the family that owns the house, that’s all. I got it mixed up.”  
  
“Sure,” Arthur says. Behind them, St. Denis settles into a fitful sleep, a swirl of lights drifting down from high up above. Arthur clears his throat, looking out at the road ahead, lit intermittently with bursts of red and blue and gold. “Of course.”

*

“My brother,” Micah says, late the next morning, when Arthur’s just trying to take hay out to the horses. He gives Arthur a smile that feels like an oil slick, dull-eyed and vacant, more the kind of grin you get on a corpse than a living man. He laughs to himself, watching Arthur work. “God made simple men for simple work, didn’t he?”  
  
“Fuck off, Micah,” Arthur sighs, more out of habit than any real hope it would shut the man up. 

Micah spits into the grass, his fingers hooked through his belt. Arthur’s met enough folk with the kind of presence that shuts men up; Dutch, for one, Javier for another. He’s also seen the little shit stains that just float by on hot air and posturing; they tend to be the ones caught stabbing a man long after he’s dead on the ground, up to their elbows in blood. Ain’t hard to see which category Micah fell into. He was a feral dog, you never knew when he was going to come up biting, or why. 

“You wound me,” Micah says sweetly, staring at him a moment longer before whistling for Baylock.

Arthur rolls his eyes, breaking up the hay bale for the horses. “Not often enough.”

“Oh, sweet, kind Arthur Morgan. You havin’ fun, helping out all the lost souls of these United States?” Micah asks as Baylock trots over. “Hey, when’s the last time you think you done any real work for this gang, Arthur? I thought you was a _big, scary_ man. Can’t even do the work for that god damn pansy Strauss no more, can you?”

“You talkin’ for a reason?” Arthur calls, grabbing another bale from Pearson’s wagon, heaving it over to the pasture. 

“Oh, I’m just a curious man,” Micah says, tossing his saddle over Baylock’s back, reaching down to pull the girth tight. “All them good deeds you been doin’ lately. Curious about all that time you’re spending with our resident redskin.”  
  
Arthur pauses after he throws the bale on the ground, facing away from Micah. He runs his tongue around the inside of his bottom lip, breathing slow and deliberate. Dutch wouldn’t take kindly to him brawling in camp, especially with his favorite simpering lickspittle. But what gives him real pause is what Charles would say if he found out Arthur was trying to fight his battles for him. So, he swallows the bile in his throat and says, quietly, “You better think about your next words real careful, Micah.”

“S’what he is, ain’t he?” Micah says innocently, fitting the bridle over Baylocks head. “Don’t see why it’s offensive.”  
  
“Hey, maybe you’re right,” Arthur drawls, turning around real slow. “Just like if I was to call you a sister-fucking, two-toothed redneck, that’s just being _accurate_ , ain’t it?”  
  
There’s a wild stab of fury in Micah’s bloodshot eyes, clear as lightning. For a moment, Arthur is almost relieved; Micah’s gonna try and kill him and hell - if it comes down to a real fight, a living or dying fight, he knows just who’s gonna end up pushing daisies. But just as quickly, Micah seems to shove that anger away. It’s like riding a train through a station at night, all brilliant light and color and then - blackness. Ain’t nothing behind those eyes now, Arthur thinks, not even fear.

“You’re a cruel, cruel man,” Micah says, hacking wetly. It goes on a while before he’s got his breath back enough to swing up in his saddle. “But, I knows you got a soft heart somewhere in there. You’re out here, rescuing cats from trees and playing matchmaker. You cut such a _grim figure_ , don’t you just.”  
  
“Ain’t you left yet?”  
  
“Oh yessir, I am on my way,” Micah says. “Dutch is sending me down to St. Denis, scouting out that bank we casing.” He grins, all yellow and red. “Ain’t surprised he didn’t ask you.”

“For christsake, see the damn sawbones while you’re down there,” Arthur mutters, “Your hackin’ is keeping me up at night.”

“You know, I meet all sorts of people on the road,” Micah says, like Arthur hasn’t said anything. “ _All_ kinds, really. Turns out I met some folk down in St. Denis that ran with Mister Smith, once upon a time.” He leans over the horn of his saddle, affecting a look of deep contemplation. “Good lord, the stories they had about him. _Interesting_ stories. Him and his…. _tastes_.” 

Micah looks at Arthur for a good long beat, smiling that deadman smile. “You been spending an awful lot of time with Mister Smith lately, ain’t you, Arthur?” 

He don’t wait for a reply before spinning Baylock around, clucking to urge him into a trot. After a moment, before he hits the treeline, he starts whistling a jaunty tune.  
  


*

“For chrissake, Reverend, shut the fuck up!”

“Ah, for the love of God,” Arthur mutters to himself, finally giving up on the nap he’s been chasing for the last half hour, tossing the blanket down to his ankles with far too much force. He’d spent the last two nights creeping around the damn Braithwaites estate and all he wants from the world right now is a few hours sleep. “I’d be better off taking my chances with the goddamn alligators. What the hell are you people shouting about?”  
  
Lenny’s tucking in to a bowl of stew by the main table, Hosea and Charles looking exhausted beside him. 

“Sorry, Arthur,” Lenny says, “I didn’t mean to wake you - though it’s amazing you could sleep through this idiot’s blathering.” He gestures at where the Reverend is, surprisingly, upright and freshly shaved, his bible clutched in his hand. 

“I am merely reciting the work of the Lord our God!” Swanson says, shaking the bible above his head. “If a man lies with a man as with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination; they shall surely be put to death; their blood is upon them! Leviticus, twenty thir-”

Muttering, Lenny digs a half-rotten potato from the refuse next to Pearson’s bench and lobs it at the still-ranting Reverend, hitting him square in the eye. 

“Nice shot,” Hosea murmurs, digging a quarter out of his wallet and sliding it across the table to Lenny. Charles hums in agreement, absently carving a piece of wood. He’d been working on a set of toy soldiers for Jack for weeks now; this one looks like it’s going to be a horse and rider. 

Swanson starts spluttering, wiping the pulp off his face with his sleeve. “Mister Matthews, I cannot believe you would let this stand. I am a man of _God_.”

“What crawled up the Reverend’s ass this fine afternoon?” Arthur asks, sliding onto the bench beside Lenny. 

“I don’t know,” Lenny mutters, “There’s some art show down in St Denis that he’s heard about. He’s been practicing the little speech he’s planning on doing outside the gallery all afternoon.”

“Calm down, Reverend,” Hosea calls out jovially. “Mister Summers here is merely trying to toughen you for the reception you may encounter in St. Denis. Perhaps you’d like to depart soon? I’m sure with all this practicing of yours, you’re more than ready for all the _sinners_ in that fair city.”

“Man lives with a bunch of murderers and whores and that’s what gets him going?” Arthur says, tiredly. “Really?”  
  
“Perhaps you’re right, Mister Mattews,” Swanson says regally, still brushing globs of rotten produce out of his eyebrows. “There are many wayward sheep that need a shepherd. Ah, perhaps you could loan me but a few dollars for my travels?”  
  
“I’d give him twenty dollars if it meant he’d shut his mouth for two minutes,” Charles murmurs after Hosea has gone to see the Reverend off. Arthur snorts, dropping his forehead down onto the table.  
  
“He’d just spend it on liquor,” Lenny mutters, finishing the last of the stew. “And then when he runs out, he’d start talking again. _Louder_.”

Charles chuckles. “Funny you mention that,” he says and drags a heavy jug of moonshine out from under the table. “If Hosea hadn’t shoved him off, I was planning on gifting this to your holy man. It’s probably enough to keep even him busy for an evening. Figured it’d save the people in St. Denis a headache, if not the Reverend.”

Lenny cackles, slapping Charles on the shoulder as he shoves off to clean his bowl. “You got a mean streak, Charles. Good for you.”

“Jesus, this whole camp is crazy,” Arthur says once they’re alone, forehead still down on the table. Charles pats his shoulder, but Arthur can feel him laughing at him. He opens one eye to glare at him, which only confirms it. “What kinda show got him so upset?”  
  
“Some Frenchman, doing nude portraits,” Charles says, rolling his eyes. “Ladies _and_ gentlemen. Reverend Swanson just so happened to be sober when he read about it in the paper.”

“Not Charles Châtenay?” Arthur says, lifting his head a bit.

“That sounds right - why? You know him?”  
  
“Yeah, ran into him a few times down in St. Denis. He’s a madman,” Arthur says. “Hah, there was a fight at his gallery opening. Turns out, he’s been screwing all his models. Thought it was just ladies he - uh - ‘painted.’” He pauses, chuckling. “Come to think of it, he did offer to paint me.”

Charles bursts out with a laugh. “That so? Did he offer to show you his etchings?”

Arthur elbows him, laughing quietly to himself. “And here I thought I was special to him. Looks like he’s been courting every warm body in St. Denis.”  
  
“Just the ones worthy of a painting,” Charles says softly, smiling at him. Arthur drops his head back down to the table, this time to hide the blush as much as the smile that came along with it. 

“Tsk tsk, lyin’s one of those _big_ sins, Mister Smith.”  
  
“But bein’ a stubborn fool isn’t?” Charles says, standing. “Your religion has strange priorities.”  
  
“Ain’t my religion,” Arthur grumbles. “Hey, where you going?”

Charles looks back at him over his shoulder. “Just headed out for the night. Do some hunting, see if I can scare up any more news about the Braithwaites and Gray's. Maybe distract Dutch from this job in St. Denis.”

“By yourself?”  
  
“Yes,” Charles says slowly, as if Arthur’s gone slow. “Why wouldn’t I?”  
  
Because the area is lousy with those hooded rodents with burning torches, Arthur thinks. Sure, they’re about as competent as a drunk in a ditch, but even fools get lucky. 

“Want company?” he asks instead, because Charles wouldn’t take kindly to Arthur thinking he needs protection. Hell, Arthur _knows_ Charles don’t need protecting. And yet…  
  
But Charles hesitates a moment, not acquiescing as readily as Arthur had hoped. Charles spent most of the last ten years on his own, Arthur reminds himself. Ain’t surprising he’d need some time away from folk, Arthur included. Still, it stings a bit more than it oughta. He’s not some besotted fourteen year old who can’t keep his hands to himself for five minutes, but it seems the chances they have are getting thinner on the ground. More and more often, Arthur worries they’re running out of time; eventually, Charles will slip away from this slow disaster. The man’s too smart not to see that the light at the end of this tunnel is guttering and growing dimmer every day.

“I, uh, I don’t gotta, I just - “ Arthur says quickly, and that seems to soften something in Charles' face.  
  
“Of course,” Charles says, relenting. “Always. Go grab your things.”

*

By the time they set up camp, Arthur’s pretty sure that he’s disrupted whatever plans Charles actually had for the evening. They didn’t do any hunting, except checking a few snares Charles had set up ( _his_ always seemed to have caught something), and they take a wide loop around the Braithwaites estate. They end up by a large, twisted old tree a few miles off the road, which the gang has been using as a landmark when they need to regroup outside of camp.

Still, Charles don’t say two words about it, so Arthur lets it lie. Charles sets up the tent while Arthur gets the fire going and guts and skins the rabbits for dinner. It’s a quiet night in the death of summer, little to be heard but the rustle of wind in the dry grass, their occasional murmurs to one another, and the call of evening birds.

“I’m glad you came,” Charles says once they’ve eaten. It’s the first thing either of them have said in more than an hour.  
  
Arthur shrugs. “Wasn’t gonna get any peace at camp.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” Charles murmurs, rearranging himself to let his head rest on Arthur’s thigh, easily and unquestioningly intimate. 

“‘M sorry about the Reverend,” Arthur says, tentatively dragging his hand through Charles’ hair, sweeping a thumb across his eyebrow.

“If I gave a damn every time a white fool shouted some nonsense at me, I wouldn’t have time to get anything else done.”

“Have you - uh, nevermind,” Arthur says, cursing his fool mouth and shutting his eyes. After a moment, Charles shuffles around enough to reach up and pinch his side.

“Just ask,” he says, patiently, when Arthur opens his eyes.

“Ain’t important,” Arthur insists, staring at the fire, letting his hand rest spread on Charles’ chest. “I just. I’ve - with. Uh.”  
  
“Arthur.”

“Y’ever been with women?” Arthur forces out. “Like I said, it ain’t important, I just - you know. Eliza. Mary.” He laughs in self deprecation. “Enough whores between here and the Pacific to stage a five act play.”

Charles laughs, a bright and lovely noise that lets Arthur dare a glance down at him. “Your sweet talk needs work.”  
  
Arthur sighs, dragging his free hand over his face. “I know.”

Charles is still laughing a bit when he says, “Sure. When I was a kid, trying to work out what it was all about. A few times since then. Usually find someone willing when people start talking behind their hands about what I do and don’t do, just to keep them from getting suspicious. Never got what the fuss was about, so much, but - needs must.”

“People should mind their own business,” Arthur says. He thinks about men like Bill, and worse, men like Micah, who’d try to cut a man down for so much less than this. 

“C’mon,” Charles says, rolling to his feet, kicking dirt over the fire. “Lets go to bed.”

And so they do. Arthur don’t like to expect nothing, he’s so grateful just to have Charles alive and hale beside him, it seems selfish to want more. But expecting ain’t the same as wanting. Charles is so graceful as he turns to tie the tent flaps closed, twisting around easily on his knees, his hair spilling in silky sheets across his back. Arthur lights a lantern and hangs it carefully overhead, throwing the lines of Charles face and shoulders into stark relief. He’s got to get this man down on paper, he thinks; he hasn’t yet, hasn’t trusted himself to capture it properly, the private curve of Charles’ lips when he smiles, the graceful lines of his scar, the deep kindness hiding behind his eyes. Ain’t nobody that could get it down right he thinks, not Châtenay, not himself, not a man or woman alive. 

When he turns, Charles catches him staring and smiles enough to light up his eyes.

“Here,” he murmurs softly, unbuttoning the first two buttons on Arthur’s shirt.“Get out of your clothes.”

Arthur chokes a bit on his own spit, but Charles is kind enough not to say anything. Arthur slips his shirts over his head with shaky hands, fingers dumb on his own belt buckle. Charles is fishing something out of one of the packs, but when he turns around, he bats Arthur’s hands away, gently pressing on his shoulder to lay him flat on the blankets. 

Back, that first night, before Charles had slid his hands inside his union suit, he’d pressed his lips gently just below his ear and murmured, “You’ll only ever have to say no once, understand?”

Then, Arthur was grateful for the out, was more nerves than want in those first uncertain moments. But now, with Charles tugging his jeans and drawers down and off his legs, it’s like there ain’t any words left in him but _yes._

When he gets Arthur out of his clothes, Charles sits back on his heels, letting his eyes travel slowly from his ankles to his eyes. Arthur fidgets under the inspection, realizing with a dry click in his throat that Charles has still got all his clothes on. 

“What’re you looking at,” he mutters. “You seen it all before.” He can feel the heat coming off his ears, but Charles at least ain’t laughing at him. He so rarely does, when they’re like this.  
  
“Yeah, but it doesn’t get old,” Charles says, like it’s obvious. He leans over him, slowly dragging the palm of one hand up the inside of his thigh, relentlessly keeping his eyes on Arthur’s until his rough hand is cupping Arthur’s balls, and Arthur’s eyes shut with a shuddering sigh. 

“Fuck,” Arthur says, jerking into Charles hand when he forms a loose fist around him, twisting to spread the slick gathering at the tip. Arthur can’t figure how he gets here so quickly, so hard he’s twitching, breath choking in his throat when Charles’ so much as moves. Good lord, just the sight of his hands on Arthur’s skin is enough to make both his heart and gut jump, over eager, until he’s breathless with it. 

Charles works him like that, slow and deliberate, swiping the calloused pad of his thumb over Arthur’s leaking slit, until Arthur can’t stop himself rolling his hips.

“Hey,” Charles says, pulling his hand away. When it doesn’t return, Arthur opens his eyes, blinking until he can see straight. Charles is crouched between his legs. Arthur can see the lines in his pants where he’s hard; it’s distracting, so it’s not until Charles waves the stoppered bottle of oil that Arthur refocuses. “You mentioned, before…”  
  
Arthur swallows tightly, jerking his head in a nod. It had been months ago, now, the last time they’d shared a tent far out on the road with no one else to bother them. He wanted it then - wants it now; sinking into Charles feels like nothing else, but it'sits the sounds Charles makes, how loose and boneless he is after, blinking poleaxed up at Arthur from sweaty sheets, that made him curious. 

“Sure,” Arthur says, breathless, and starts to turn over onto his knees.

Charles curls one hand around Arthur’s hip before he can complete the motion, pinning him in place. 

“No,” Charles says, rubbing his hands up Arthur’s sides soothingly. “Not yet. I just - want to make sure you like it, first.” He tipped his head to one side, looking down at him steadily. “It’s okay if you don’t,” he adds, brushing one callous-roughened finger across Arthur’s nipple.  
  
When Arthur just looks at him blankly, Charles rolls his eyes and waggles the fingers of his right hand at him. 

Oh.

“Oh,” Arthur says. He’s blushing down his chest now, he can feel it. He’s been with enough women and never flushed like this. But there’s something heavy in the way Charles looks at him that scorches right down to the bone. 

Charles is gentle with him; by rights, he shouldn’t be. They’ve both been living rough for so many years, it’s amazing that Charles can produce this kindness so easily; moreso that he can make Arthur forget himself long enough to accept it. Charles' finger slides in with a lot of oil and a long, sucking kiss placed against Arthur’s hip bone.

“God damn, you got big fingers,” Arthur gripes, shifting around like a nervous horse. If he’s being honest, it don’t feel like much. Tight, a bit aching. Nothing that makes his breath go frantic like Charles’ does when Arthur’s at him.

Charles presses a scraping kiss against the inside of Arthur’s knee. “You got bigger hands than me,” he says, laughing. “Quit bellyaching.” And he starts to move his hand a bit, easing in and out until he’s built up to a familiar rhythm, sliding from the knuckle to the tip and back in again, ceaseless and calm. It’s the same slow start that Charles prefers, when he’s got Arthur inside him, easy enough to let Charles catch his breath but so damn brutal for Arthur, who felt like a god damn boy of fifteen the first time he’d slid inside Charles, overeager, spending too quick.

“Lord,” Arthur mumbles, hands bunching in the sheets, because that’s it, right there, Charles is fucking him. Sure, he’s still fully clothed, and it’s just one careful finger, liberally slicked, but that don’t rightly matter. He shivers all over, making a low, desperate noise in his throat. 

The hand draws away but returns quickly, with Charles murmuring, “Easy,” to him as he slides two fingers back into him. Ah, that hurts. Then again, Arthur’s done plenty that hurts, but getting shot didn’t make anyone look at him like Charles is right now, all naked want and intensity, sweat on his lips and brow, as if the sight of Arthur is making him twitchy with need. It’s not the same sort of pain at all. 

He goes slow, God bless him, but sooner than Arthur thinks is possible he feels Charles’ knuckles brush his ass, his fingers pressed fully inside. It isn’t pain anymore, Arthur thinks, just a low ache and the strange, not-unpleasant sensation of being full - it’s nice, he thinks, letting himself rock back carefully. Still doesn’t see what - 

“God _damn_ ,” Arthur just about shouts, twisting enough that Charles uses his free hand to pin his hip down.

Charles hums, curling his fingers _again_ when Arthur has only just got back his breath. Arthur makes another loud, shameful noise, jerking his hips down onto Charles’ hand. When Arthur pries his eyes open, Charles has his eyes down between his legs - watching his fingers slide into him, Arthur thinks, his whole body going hot and tight when he realizes. 

Charles glances up at him, looking far less composed than Arthur is used to seeing him. “Okay?” he asks, his voice rough, eyes absolutely liquid in the flickering light from the lantern. 

“Just - keep on -” Arthur manages to get out, and Charles doesn’t make him beg. Never has. He moves his fingers at a steady, smooth pace, pulling away only once for more oil. When Arthur is feeling open and slick, Charles starts to thrust his fingers in a steady, building rhythm that has Arthur rolling his hips down to meet him. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Arthur chants, as Charles presses that spot again and again, easy as you please. Arthur has to take a deep breath, one hand going to circle the base of his cock, trying to stave off the inevitable. “God dammit, Charles, I’m close.”

Charles smiles at him, rearranging himself enough to lick from the crease of Arthur’s thigh to his sack, already pulled up tight against his body. “I thought so.”  
  
“Smug bastard,” Arthur gasps, letting Charles drag his hand away from his cock, lacing their fingers together instead.  
  
But, Arthur supposes it isn’t smugness if it’s true. Charles keeps moving his fingers inside him, sliding in faster and faster until the noise of it is obscene, unmistakable for what it is. Arthur makes a keening noise, trying to twist back farther onto Charles hand, to get him impossibly deeper, and when he starts to think he can’t possible take anymore, Charles squeezes their twined hands together and fits his perfect, smiling mouth over the head of Arthur’s cock, laving at him with a few soft swipes of his tongue.

It doesn’t really take much more than that. Arthur curses out some half formed words, his hands wrapped tight in Charles’ hair, spilling for long seconds into Charles’ mouth; good lord, it never occurred to him how much he squeezed when he came, but with Charles’ clever fingers pressed up so sweetly inside him, he can feel it perfectly, intense and rolling and tight.

Despite his warning, it seems to have caught Charles a bit off guard; there’s some pearly white streaks at the corner of his mouth and on his chin when he looks up at Arthur, and Arthur shivers all over again, his spent cock twitching on his stomach. 

“Come here,” Arthur says, gasping, yanking too hard on Charles’ long hair. He knows the man likes it, but even by that standard this is too much; Charles hisses as Arthur drags him up, fumbling as he withdraws his fingers from Arthur too quickly, needing both hands to brace on either side of Arthur’s head. 

“Arthur,” he says softly, face just inches from Arthur’s. Arthur doesn’t know why it’s taken him this long; during those first fumbling nights together, Charles had treated him like a wild animal, giving him plenty of room to bolt. Back then, Arthur could let himself believe this was just a nice favor done by a friend, impersonal, practical. But that was before he’d seen Charles deep in slumber, before Colm tried his best to unmake him, before he’d seen the naked panic in Charles eyes during those first few awful days of his recovery. “Are you -”

Arthur pulls him down into a kiss; it’s awkward to start - a bad angle and Charles stays frozen above him for long, agonizing seconds, until Arthur worries he’s misjudged this ( _I misjudged someone_ \- fuck every man that ever kept Charles in fear, Arthur thinks savagely), before Charles is collapsing against him, one hand coming up to slide into Arthur’s sweaty hair with a moan. It starts awkward, but it ends up sloppy and deep - Arthur can taste himself in Charles’ mouth, hell, some of his come is now smeared on his own cheek, but there isn’t a single part of him that cares. 

They kiss for long moments, Arthur marveling at the lovely scrape of Charles’ stubble against his skin, until Arthur realizes that Charles is rolling hips in increasingly rapid thrusts against his thigh, the rub of his jeans too much sensation on Arthur’s overstimulated cock. He breaks away long enough to slam Charles onto his back and kiss him again, drunk on the wet slide of their lips together, the taste of Charles’ tongue in his mouth. 

“Don’t you dare,” he grumbles, yanking Charles pants down to his knees. 

Charles slams his head back on the blankets when Arthur gets his mouth around his cock, pretty and painfully hard, bent up to his stomach and dripping onto the flat planes of his abdomen. When they’d started this, Arthur had worried that he wouldn’t be able to reciprocate like this, that whatever fluttering in his gut wouldn’t extend so far as to make him comfortable going down on his knees for Charles. But, he was wrong, like he so often is. He ain’t nearly so good as Charles is, he suspects, but the sound that Charles makes when Arthur takes him in his mouth has always been enough for him to believe he isn’t all bad. When Arthur glances up at him, Charles has pushed himself on his elbows. He notices Arthur looking and reaches down to press his thumb against the corner of Arthur’s mouth, feeling the slide of his cock between Arthur’s lips.  
  
“Arthur,” he says, in an uneven, wrecked voice that sparks echoes of want through him. Charles is leaking almost constantly, salty and heavy on Arthur’s tongue. It astonishes him, how hard Charles is, how desperately close he is with just a few bobs of Arthur’s head. Arthur reaches up, delicately cupping Charles balls, pressing two fingers just behind his sack the way that Charles had first showed him. Charles _curses_ , his hand now heavy on the back of Arthur’s neck, pressing his head down until his cock is hitting the back of his throat. Arthur chokes, pulls off, and takes Charles deep again, letting him roll his hips until his cock grows harder, thicker on Arthur’s tongue, and he finally he spills, gasping wordlessly, fingers shaking in Arthur’s hair.

He can’t swallow all of it and he ain’t overly fond of the taste, for all that he likes doing this. Arthur takes as much as he can and pulls back gasping, twisting his hand around Charles cock until he’s shuddered through the last of it. Charles finally swats weakly at Arthur’s hands, making a noise that’s more pain then pleasure, and draws Arthur up to kiss him again, hands cupped tightly around his face. 

They lay like that, Arthur braced above him, their foreheads tipped together, eyes closed and breathing the same air, for long, sweltering minutes. Charles mindlessly drags his hands down Arthur’s spine. They should have gotten Charles out of his clothes, Arthur thinks; they’re wrecked with sweat and come and smell so heavily of sex. 

Finally, they roll apart, both still panting wetly. After a moment, Charles digs a flask out of his pack, taking a swig and rolling it around his mouth before passing it to Arthur. Arthur does the same, letting the bourbon wash away the lingering taste. Charles rolls onto his side, leaning down to kiss him once more - like a kid with a new toy, Arthur thinks, cupping the back of Charles’ skull, he can’t stop playing with Arthur’s mouth now Arthur has granted him access. Arthur never should have waited so long. 

“You’re - god, Arthur,” Charles says, laughing shakily. 

There’s nothing Arthur can say, he feels so raw, aching, so blindingly in love. His mouth is dumb, but he tries to make up for it with his hands, running across Charles’ shoulders, his sides, over the curve of his ass, pulling them tightly together, damn the heat and everything else in the world. 

“I figure I like it fine,” Arthur murmurs, just to hear the loud peel of Charles’ laughter against his throat, to see his delighted, indulgent smile. 

_I love you so_ , he thinks, but lets Charles kiss him again, and again, until they’re both sliding gently into sleep. 

*

He wakes hours later, roused by Charles’ movements as he changes his clothes. 

“Here,” Charles says, passing him a damp cloth, “Wash up, you’ll thank me in the morning.”

“Time’s it?” Arthur says groggily, wiping himself down. He’ll need a good bath to get the smell off him, but this will do enough for now. 

“Gone midnight,” Charles says, hesitating a moment before he leans over, brushing his mouth against Arthur’s lips. “Go back to sleep.”

“Where you goin’?”

“Can’t sleep, figure I’ll keep watch.”

Arthur feels like his limbs weigh fifty pounds and he could sleep for ten years. “You can’t sleep? And what the hell’s there to keep watch for out here?”  
  
“Don’t worry about it,” Charles says lightly, leaning down to kiss him deeper before turning back to the tent flaps. “You sound drunk, go back to bed.”

Arthur thinks about fighting, but sleep flows back in around him before he can dredge up the words.

The next time Arthur is aware of more than the pleasant exhaustion in his limbs, night is still hanging heavily outside, and there’s a voice - no, voices - in hushed conversation outside. 

“-all there, properly, legal too. Hah, not that I know much about that sorta thing.”  
  
“Good.” That’s Charles’ voice, pitched low, almost beyond hearing. “Thank you.”

There’s a long pause, and Arthur is just drifting back to sleep when he hears the other man say, quietly, “He might not t’ank you for it, though.” 

Ah, fuck, Arthur realizes, rubbing his eyes. That’s Sean. What the fuck is he doing out here so late?

“But he’ll be alive to not thank me,” Charles says, in a voice that says the topic is closed.

But Sean’s six kinds of idiot rolled together, so he keeps talking. “Speaking of the man, seems you got him out there with you, eh? Saw Roisin hitched up. Where is he?” 

“Where do you think he is? He’s sleeping,” Charles says calmly, but Arthur can hear Sean stifling laughter.  
  
Sean says, “Oh, I’ll bet he is,” and that’s what makes Arthur give up on going back to bed. He digs his jeans out of the pile of clothes at the end of the bedrolls and pulls them on.

“What the hell’s goin’ on out here?” Arthur asks, stretching as he steps outside. Charles has rekindled the fire at some point, despite how warm the air is. It’s what the gang does typically, when using this place as a meeting point. It makes it easier to pick out in the dark.

Arthur is still groggy with sex and sleep, but he doesn’t miss Charles stowing an opened letter into his bag, nor the open exasperation on his face when he meets Arthur’s questioning look.

Sean, crouched by the fire with Ennis still saddled behind him, grins openly at him, laughter dancing in his eyes. “Well hello there, English. Dressed for the weather, eh?”  
  
Which, of course, is when Arthur realizes that he’s stepped outside without a shirt on, just his jeans pulled up, unbuttoned, around his hips. He’s cleaned up, some, but he knows there’s a mark on his hip from Charles’ mouth, stubble burn on his shoulders and neck. 

Arthur flushes, but Sean’s a pain in the ass and Arthur ain’t about to be pushed around by a little shit like him.

“It’s hot out,” he growls. Behind him, Charles sighs deeply. 

“Relax, fellas,” Sean says, bouncing to his feet. He lays one finger alongside his nose, winking at them. “If you’d’a told me ten years ago I’d be riding with a pair a backgammon players, I’d’a blacked your eye.”

"Is that so,” Arthur says in a low voice. Charles reaches up and grabs Arthur by one belt loop, holding him in place.  
  
“But!” Sean says, throwing his hands up in the air, appeasing, “But, it’s just the two o’ you arseholes. You can stand around, bein’ all quiet at one another all day for all I care. Leaves more of the women for me.”  
  
“Karen is going to kill you one day,” Charles says, wistfully. 

“Ah, she loves me,” Sean says, easily swinging up into his saddle. “Don’t you worry there, King Arthur. Mum’s the word.”  
  
“Dead’s a word too, MacGuire,” he calls after him as Sean spurs his horse away, laughing merrily as he disappears out of sight. 

“What the hell was that all about?” Arthur says. Charles rolls to his feet, kicking dirt back over the fire.

“He saw the fire from the road,” Charles lies. It’s transparent and clumsy; Charles isn’t really even trying. “Wanted to see if there was anything he should be worrying about.”

 _What are you doing_? Arthur wants to ask. Charles’ face is tipped up at the sky; it’s a brilliantly clear night, the dark canopy of the world bright with stars. Charles knows that Arthur knows he’s lying, but neither of them say a word. 

Charles turns to him, pulling him in by his belt loops, his mouth open and wet against Arthur’s lips. 

“I could sleep now, if you want to turn back in,” Charles says, low, inviting. Arthur thinks about the half-kept secrets, the letter tucked in Charles’ bag, the leering yellow grin Micah had given him before riding out of camp. 

Ain’t nothing worth cogitating over, he thinks, kissing Charles sweetly, his fingers catching in his hair. After a moment, Arthur lets himself get drawn gently, back into bed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LISTEN. Listen. I know that probably the period-appropriate lubricant is...Vaseline, or something equally awful, so I'm ignoring that and giving them magic oil/lube. There are aliens in this game, let me have astroglide as well, okay?
> 
> Find me over at [allthingsmustfall](https://allthingsmustfall.tumblr.com/)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a monster, but Things Are Coming Together, slow but sure.

Lenny’s got a good voice for singing, Arthur ain’t saying he don’t, but good lord, he just don’t quit.

“Good god man,” Arthur says, when he starts belting out _another_ raunchy verse to a song that Arthur recalls being a lot shorter. And with a lot less euphemisms for a man’s, uh, equipment. They’re riding back outta Rhodes with some new bounties, and Lenny’s been sorting through his memory in an effort to drive Arthur to madness or tears. Maybe both.

“-dang do, where are yo-ou,” Lenny sings out, drawing out the last syllable until Arthur swats at him across the gap between their horses. Lenny eases Maggie away from Arthur, out of range, and grins at him, laughing. “I thought you liked that song, Arthur?”

“Sure,” Arthur drawls. “Liked it even better half a damn hour ago when you started singing it. Who the hell taught you all those verses, anyway?”  
  
“Mary-Beth’s been writing new ones,” Lenny says, still snickering.

“Wha - Mary-Beth? _Our_ Mary-Beth?” Arthur must look like some scandalized society matron, because Lenny starts laughing harder, bent over in his saddle.

“She’s got a gift,” Lenny says, wiping away tears. 

“Even the one ‘bout the man with the crooked, uh, six shooter?”

“Oh yeah,” Lenny says, “She had trouble coming up with a rhyme, but ‘balls made of pewter’ has a nice ring, don’t it? She was real proud of that one.”  
  
“Christ alive, you’re all a buncha children,” Arthur says, but he’s laughing too, shaking his head. 

“You should hear what she came up with for One Eyed Riley - that got _Karen_ blushing -”  
  
“Hey, you see that?” Arthur says suddenly, jerking his chin out at the dry road ahead. It’s hard to see with the glare of the sun, but there’s a line of dust blooming along the trail ahead, coming from the direction of camp. 

“Somebody’s in a rush,” Lenny says, reining to a stop beside Arthur.

“Hold on a sec,” Arthur mutters, digging his binoculars out of his saddle bags. “Ah, hell,” he murmurs, squinting into the eye piece. “It’s a wagon, goin’ way too fast for these roads. They’re gonna break an axle, running like that.”  
  
Lenny frowns out at the cloudy haze. “Think they got the raiders after them?” 

“Hell if I know, here you take a look,” he says, passing over the binoculars. Kid’s got better eyes than he does, much as it shames him. He’s getting old. 

Lenny raises them to his eyes, squinting. “Ah, _shit_ ,” he says, digging his heels into Maggie’s sides before he’s even finished pulling them away from his face. “C’mon!”  
  
“What!” Arthur says, urging Roisin into a gallop behind him, “What the hell -”  
  
“It’s _our_ wagon,” Lenny shouts back over his shoulder. “It’s someone from camp!”

“Christ, what now,” Arthur growls, giving Roisin as much rein as she wants, shooting after Lenny over the dry, cracked earth.

They ride hard, Arthur's mind offering up all manner of unhelpful explanations - some robber killed one of the gang and stolen the wagon, the Pinkertons found the camp and they were fleeing, someone was finally quitting the gang and Dutch was running them down to teach them a lesson - but as they finally close the gap, Arthur spies Bill in the driver’s seat, looking about as frantic as the man ever gets. Once again they got mismatched horses yoked up to the wagon - Taima and Boaz, this time. 

“What the hell’re you doin’?” Arthur shouts, looping around to follow alongside them - they’re shooting straight down the road back into Rhodes.  
  
“It’s Strauss!” Bill yells back, jerking his thumb over his shoulder to the interior of the covered wagon.

“What the fuck happened?”  
  
But Bill just shakes his head grimly, lashing the horses to keep them at a gallop.

“To hell with this,” Arthur says, swinging one leg over his saddle and leaping for the wagon.

He pulls himself up into the driver’s seat beside Bill, ready to start interrogating the man, when he sees the scene inside. 

Miss Grimshaw is seated within, looking as immutable and determined as ever, one hand gripped tight around Strauss’, who’s lying insensate on the bare boards of the carriage, beat so black and blue and bloody that were it not for the man’s crushed glasses stuck in his breast pocket, Arthur might not have recognized him. 

“What the fuck happened to him?” Arthur breathes, sliding from the driver’s seat to the interior. Strauss groans inarticulately. Arthur thinks he might be missing a few teeth. 

Lenny has fallen in behind the wagon, urging Maggie to keep pace, Roisin galloping along just behind him.

“I couldn’t get him to come round,” Miss Grimshaw says, as if that’s any kind of explanation. “And I think his arm will need setting.”

“How did this happen?” Arthur says slowly. He’s got no love for the old vulture, but a beating like that could kill a man - blood on the brain, or something like that.  
  
Miss Grimshaw swallows tightly, not looking up from Strauss’ gorey face. “Well,it seems Mister Bell got some bad news in St. Denis.”

*

He leaves them in Rhodes. They’d found Dr. Renaud and his wagon easily enough, but the doctor needed a bed to lay Strauss down in while he worked. Miss Grimshaw had produced a purse and paid for a week at the saloon all in one go, saying, “You just keep him alive, Dr Renaud. We’ll pay you for your services, with a bonus if you understand that Herr Strauss appreciates his privacy and we’d thank you not to go telling anyone about his - accident.”

The doctor, not being a fool, had taken the payment with a short bob of his head. “Yes. Falling down all those stairs, I assume? Understandable to not want that sort of gossip to go around.”  
  
Bill, Miss Grimshaw, and Lenny take a booth in the saloon, waiting on word from the doctor, but Arthur saddles back up, his blood boiling. 

“Arthur,” Miss Grimshaw says, following him out to the hitching post. “You leave this lie, you hear me? This is for Dutch to see to. I won’t have any more brawling in camp.”  
  
“Oh, sure,” Arthur drawls, “You know me, Miss Grimshaw, I ain’t no brawler.”  
  
He spurs Roisin to a gallop before she can tell him off for being rude, rocketing past annoyed pedestrians on his way back to camp. 

When he arrives, he finds Hosea, Charles, and Javier standing by the main road, heads bent together. When they see him, the conversation peters to a halt and they watch him approach in silence. 

“Arthur, a word before you head into camp, my boy!” Hosea calls out, a false smile plastered on his sun-creased face. 

“I already know,” Arthur says, reining up beside him. Javier has a vicious black eye and a cut above his eyebrow. “I saw them on the road - Grimshaw and Bill and Lenny are waiting on news from the doctor. What the hell happened to you?”  
  
Javier spits. “The little bastard got lucky.”  
  
“He pulled him off Strauss,” Charles says, frowning as he adds, “Micah was wearing brass knuckles.”  
  
“Oh of _course_ he was,” Arthur says, disgusted. Struass was lucky his skull wasn’t cracked. “Where the hell is he now?”  
  
He groans when the men just exchange a series of careful looks, yet another silent discussion he’s being boxed out of. “Just spit it out already.”  
  
Hosea says, “Dutch took him out to cool off a bit.”  
  
“Cool off?” Arthur says. “He damn near beat that man to death! Dutch shoulda shot him for going after one of us like that.” It wouldn’t be the first time they’d put down a mad dog.

“I know, I know,” Hosea says. “He - ah, seems to believe that Mister Bell’s recent diagnosis is a - mitigaing factor.”  
  
“To hell with this,” Arthur says, spurring down the trail into camp. He dismounts before Roisin has fully stopped, throwing the reins at Kieran, muttering, “Look after her, will you?” as he strides into camp.

The camp is quiet, but that ain’t a real surprise. Tilly, Mary-Beth, and Sean are seated by the women’s tents, Sean with a sawed off shotgun over his knees. He looks edgy, but relaxes slightly when he catches sight of Arthur. He turns to the women, murmuring something too softly for Arthur to hear. 

Strauss’ tent is torn to pieces, his cot knocked over and belongings scattered across the grass. There’s a splash of blood across his linens, and his ledger lies open, burnt to ash, just the heavy leather cover and spine remaining.

“Jesus,” Arthur says, crouching down. 

“Guessin’ you’ve been brought up to speed,” Sean says, coming up behind him.

“Yup,” Arthur says, lifting a broken picture frame out of the wreckage of Strauss’ things. “Jesus, this is a goddamn mess.”  
  
“You said it,” Sean sighs. Arthur glances up at him. The man looks worried, almost frightened, the gun held tightly in his hands. “It was a god damned blood bath. Strauss didn’t even see him coming.”

It ain’t normal to see Sean without a hint of mirth in his eyes, and it puts Arthur off more than he’d like to admit. He’s still casting around for something to say to assure him, even empty words or lies, when they hear footsteps from the lakeshore. They both spin around, Sean with his sawed-off held at the ready.

“Arthur, my boy,” Dutch calls, clapping his hands together as he strides back into camp, Micah bobbing along behind him; he’s got a split eyebrow and a fat lip. Well done, Javier, Arthur thinks with ugly satisfaction. Shame he didn’t break his jaw as well. “Mister MacGuire, watch where you point that thing, what are you doing walking around camp with a weapon drawn?” Dutch says jovially. “Miss Grimshaw would have your head.”

Sean just watches Micah steadily, gun cradled in his hands. “But she ain’t here, is she? She’s down in Rhodes. With Strauss.”  
  
“Now, now, now, we’ve all had our disagreements,” Dutch says, gently. He claps his hand on Micah’s shoulder. “There isn’t any reason to hold a grudge. We are dangerous men, and on occasion cursed with something of a temper. These things happen.”  
  
“Strauss is an old man, Dutch,” Arthur says lowly. “And he ain’t a fighter. God knows I’m not particularly fond of the man, but -”

“Oh, there’s that high, high horse of yours again, Morgan,” Micah says, coughing over the words. “I am _deeply_ sorry for letting my temper get the better of me.” He grins, staring through Arthur with a vacant, chilly gaze. “That god damn foreigner is to blame for this fucking rattle of mine. Him, among _others_ ,” he drawls, running his tongue around the inside of his lip.

“These are complex times,” Dutch says placatingly. “Mister Bell and I have discussed the matter and he has assured me that this...lapse of his is finished. I know that compassion isn’t your forte, Arthur, but please, find it in your heart to be patient with Micah. This sort of bad news is liable to set any man off his stride.”

Arthur almost steps back at that, pain bleeding through the numbness that had followed in the wake of his rage. “Compassion?” he says, almost laughing. “For Micah? He nearly beat Strauss to _death_ , Dutch! The doctor ain’t even sure the man’s gonna wake back up! And he says _sorry_ and that’s all done and dusted? He’s a goddamn liability-”

“That is _enough_ ,” Dutch bellows. A flock of roosting birds take off from the treetops; the only noise in the clearing the flutter of a great many wings. “That is enough,” he says again, calmly this time. “This man is your brother, Arthur. I won’t hear you speak a word against him, not after what he’s suffered for this gang.” He glares at Arthur stormily. “And suffered for _you_ , if I’m not mistaken. Shouldn’t this have been your job? You get lazy so you shove work off on a dedicated, hard-working man like Mister Bell?”

Dutch shakes his head, sneering. “You oughta be ashamed, Arthur. God knows I am.”  
  
Beside Dutch, Micah grins, his eyes following Arthur with reptilian focus.  
  
“Mister MacGuire, you store that gun away,” Dutch says, ignoring Arthur’s naked, debilitating shock. “And tell Mister Pearson to bring Micah some tea for his throat. The poor man deserves some kindness, after all he’s done for us.”

*

The women take turns going down into town to see to Strauss, and by the third day he’s awake. Crying out in pain and doped to the gills on morphine, but awake, breathing. Alive.

“He, um, well Dutch, there’s some bad news,” Mary-Beth says uncertainly one evening, after she and Lenny had returned from town. “His injuries are going to take some time to heal and the doctor wasn’t too glad about him sleeping out rough, and I think that if we had to move camp suddenly, it would be hard to do it without hurting him more and -”  
  
“My dear girl,” Dutch says, taking her hands in his, “Please do not worry yourself. I’m sure it will work out just fine. Herr Strauss will be back to us in no time.” 

“That’s the thing,” she says carefully. “He mentioned an old friend he has down in St. Denis. He thinks he might go stay with her while he recovers. Um. He didn’t seem so sure he would be coming back to the gang.” She swallows, looking down at the ground. “Ever, I mean. Even after he’s recovered.”

From where he’s tucked into his tent, journalling, Arthur watches Dutch’s face. Tilly and Charles and Hosea are all within arms reach of Mary-Beth - that probably isn’t an accident, he thinks. They’re all plotting something that he can’t quite see the shape of, but he’s not so much a fool that he doesn’t have suspicions. He just hopes they don’t get themselves hurt. The thin slice of goodness in him wants to tell them to go, to get out now, soon, before it’s too late. But he’s selfish. Every morning he shares coffee with Charles, each time he’s able to make him laugh, every stolen, private moment, is precious. Lord knows he won’t stop them, but he’s too much of a coward to urge them away.

Dutch blows a slow smoke ring and stares down at Mary-Beth, considering. “Well, that ain’t surprising. Man’s more coward than not, I’ve always known he’d turn yellow on us eventually.”  
  
Mary-Beth blinks at him, mouth half open. “What?”

Dutch waves her away, laughing. “Herr Strauss isn’t really one of us, my girl,” he says. “It’s cruel work he does, I’ve always said so, but the man wanted to inflict himself upon us for a time, and so I let him. Now he wants to leave us when times are tough, then I cannot say I’m surprised or aggrieved. We’re better off without him.”

“He’s weak blood, girl,” Miss Grimshaw says, folding laundry at the fire. “Dutch is right. We’re better off without him.”  
  
Arthur had seen the fear on Miss Grimshaw’s face that day in the wagon, her matronly concern over Strauss’ many wounds. She’d thought of Strauss as a man worth saving then, he thinks. But apparently it doesn’t take much more than a few finely crafted words from Dutch for her to see things as he wants her to. 

Arthur wonders how many times Dutch has done the same to him. 

“There was something else,” Lenny says from where he’s sitting at the fire. 

Dutch smiles benevolently. “Don’t keep me in suspense, Mister Summers.”

“Go on, tell him,” Lenny says, glancing up at Mary-Beth. 

“Well - I’m not, you know, certain of it, I never met the man face to face, but after he was hassling Arthur back in Horseshoe creek, Arthur showed me a sketch he done of him and, well -”  
  
“Who are we talking about, my dear girl?” Dutch says, sliding his hand onto her shoulder, thumb passing over her collarbones. Before Arthur can roll to his feet, Hosea is stepping forward, easily coming between them under the guise of tossing his coat over Mary-Beth’s shoulders. Dutch disengages with a frown, but he doesn’t press it. 

“Agent Milton,” Mary-Beth says quickly. “I think I saw him coming out of the saloon in Rhodes.”  
  
Dutch booms a laugh, so loud and condescending that Mary-Beth steps back, flushing. 

“You think you recognized a god damn Pinkerton from one of Arthur’s _drawings_?” he says, still laughing. “Oh, that imagination of yours, my girl. Best you keep that to the page, not trying to rile everyone in camp.”

“I saw him too,” Lenny says sharply. “I didn’t get a good look at his face, but I think he was wearing a badge Dutch! It ain’t like Mary-Beth to imagine things like that!”  
  
“Don’t get yourself worked up, my boy,” Dutch says, shaking his head. “I understand how stressful these last few months have been, but there’s no use in jumping at shadows. We’re better than that.”  
  
When the group around the fire only stares at him silently, Dutch sighs, rolling his eyes. “If it will make you feel better, Mister Bell is spending the night in Rhodes himself. The poor man needs more elixir for his condition and the general store is expecting a delivery in the morning. I’m sure that if Mister Milton is in Rhodes, Micah will inform us all of it first thing.”  
  
“We should pack up, just in case,” Hosea says, casting an eye around the ramshackle camp. “It’ll be easier to leave quick if we -”  
  
“We’ll do no such thing,” Dutch says expansively. “I’ll not have everyone worrying themselves sick over a woman’s hysteria, Hosea.”

“What harm could it do to be prepared?”

“I said, we’ll not be packing up,” Dutch says in tones of finality. He stares at Hosea, grin frozen in place. “If the damn Pinkertons knew we were here, they’d already be upon us, hungry dogs that they are. We will check with Micah tomorrow and, undoubtedly, he will confirm that Miss Gaskill here was simply - over-excited.”  
  
“Yes,” Mary-Beth says tightly. “Undoubtedly he will. Excuse me, I’m so sorry, but it’s been a long day. I’m headed to bed.”

As the group around the fire breaks up, Arthur slips out of his tent, tucking his journal under his arm. 

“Hey there, Mary-Beth,” he says gently, crouching down beside her bedroll. She’s already wrapped herself up in her blankets. Her eyes are puffy and pink and her breath shudders when she draws air to greet him.

“Hey there, Arthur,” she says. “Don’t you mind me, I’m just - overtired, I think.” She gives him a watery smile. “How are you? You been real quiet the last few days.” She pauses before adding, “Sean mentioned Dutch said some cruel things to you.”

Arthur looks away, watching Dutch grin and laugh in the spill of light from the fire. Pearson and Bill and Grimshaw are gathered around him, laughing when he delivers some tired punchline. 

“Not cruel so much as accurate,” he sighs, pushing ahead before she can correct him. “I wanted to show you the sketch again, to see if it matched who you saw today?”  
  
“You believe me?” she says, her voice small and uncertain. Arthur sighs. Lord, Dutch was a bastard for crushing her down like this. He does it so easily, just a few smart words and people fall quiet and uncertain. It was something he did quite often, come to think of it.

“I think just about everyone does, Mary-Beth,” he says gently. “We know you wouldn’t cry wolf on something like this. Dutch is ...” Arthur closes his eyes, searching for words. “He’s...under a lot of pressure right now. Might make him shorter than he ought to be. Here,” he says, passing the journal over to her, opened to the day Milton had cornered him and Jack at the creek. “You think you saw a feller that looks like him?”  
  
Mary-Beth takes the journal carefully, holding it close to her lantern for a better look. “Oh Arthur, you do have a talent, you know. I’d love to see your other sketches, if you ever wanted to share them with me.” She presses her lips together, eyes roaming over the page. “I think that’s him. It was so quick, but I’d bet anything this is the man I saw in town today.”

“Alright,” he says, taking the book back. “Well. Okay. We’ll be careful, then, alright? I’ll talk to Hosea, I figure we can beef up the watches a bit. Keep you safe.” He pats her shoulder awkwardly. “Don’t you worry, Miss Gaskill. And thank you for telling us, that was real brave, even though Dutch is being - hard.”

She throws her arms around his shoulders, her face pressed into his chest, so quick and desperate that she almost sends Arthur sprawling back onto his ass. “Thank you Arthur,” she says shakily. “I’m just so - it’s been such a long few months, and it was so awful when Micah went after Strauss - it was like he was an _animal_.” She grips him tightly, making a few soft, hitching sounds that might be sobs. “I just want the ba- I just everyone to be safe.”  
  
He pats her gently on the back until she’s quieted some, drawing away to wipe delicately under her eyes. 

“It’s gonna be alright,” Arthur says, not caring that it was probably a lie. It was a lie she deserved to hear in that moment, and he wasn’t such a bastard to withhold it from her.  
  
“Oh, I know,” she says with, to Arthur’s mind, a strange amount of conviction. “You’re a good man, Arthur. You’re - kind. So much more than you have reason to be.” She sniffles again, wiping at her nose. “Thank you.”

“Didn’t do nothing,” he insists, flushing slightly. He rolls to his feet, journal tucked under his arm. “You sleep well now, you hear? Don’t stay up fretting. We’ll keep you safe, I promise.”

A foolish thing to say, he knows, but he means it in that moment. There’s little in this world he wouldn’t do to make it true.

As he walks back to his tent, he catches sight of Charles, Hosea, and Kieran talking out on the edge of camp. Hosea has his hand curled tight around Kieran’s shoulder and is talking to him intently; the boy looks pale but determined. Charles leans forward and says something that makes Kieran nod, reaching out to shake Charles’ hand with both of his own. From this far away, he can’t hear them, but Arthur clearly sees Kieran’s mouth form the words “thank you.”

More secrets, Arthur thinks dully, and turns back to his bed, tired in every inch of his soul.

*  
  


October dawns the next morning with a cloudy sky and a soft, warm breeze. Charles slips noiselessly into Arthur’s tent when the light is still tender and new, bringing fresh coffee and a smile. The tarps Arthur had hung up against the late summer storms are still in place, and with the fabric swinging closed behind Charles, they have the illusion of privacy. Charles drops a soft, dry kiss onto Arthur’s mouth, one hand coming up to cup the back of his head. 

“Morning,” Arthur says, blinking dumbly. Charles sits on the edge of the cot, running his fingers through Arthur’s mussed hair.

“Morning,” Charles rumbles, his voice still thick with sleep. “Micah’s back. Says he didn’t see Milton.”  
  
“Of course,” Arthur sighs, leaning up enough to take a sip of coffee. It’s scalding, so he sets it on the table beside his bed and reaches for Charles, dragging him down beside him. Charles doesn’t resist, allowing him to rearrange them so that Arthur is wrapped around Charles' back, face pressed into his neck.

“We don’t have much time,” Charles says, breathing deep and easy. 

“I know,” Arthur sighs. “Don’t mind pretending for a minute or two, though.”

So they doze like that for long minutes, legs twined together, breaths matching, until Arthur bobs up towards consciousness. “Hey,” he mumbles, “Did you ever -” he breaks off, yawning. “Did you ever run with another gang? Someone that knew about you - uh, you know. With men.”  
  
Charles turns onto his back, Arthur propped up on his side next to him. There isn’t much room in the narrow cot, but Arthur don’t mind the press of their bodies together. “Yeah, a couple times over the years, a few people knew. Some folk didn’t make a fuss, some folk did. I never really stayed long enough to care one way or the other. Why?”  
  
“I think...Micah ran into one of your old friends,” Arthur says quietly. “He mentioned it the other day.”  
  
“Ah,” Charles says, closing his eyes. On impulse, Arthur leans down to kiss him, biting gently at his bottom lip.

“Don’t matter much to me,” Arthur says softly. “I just...thought you should know. Micah would kill you for it.” He laughs humorlessly. “Kill _us_ for it, I suppose.”  
  
Charles pulls Arthur down for a deeper kiss, fingers sliding up through his hair. “He wouldn’t be the first to try. Come on,” he says, swinging his legs out of bed, scooping up Arthur’s coffee and taking a swig. “We should go, we gotta see off Kieran and Mary-Beth.”  
  
“See them off?” Arthur says, taking the coffee back with a half-hearted glare. “Where they going?”

But Charles just ducks back out of the tent, forcing Arthur follow after him. Outside, the camp is quiet, save for Sean sitting at the fire with a cup of coffee. He grins wickedly when he sees them leave the tent together, looking entirely too amused.  
  
“Alright there, Arthur?” he says, winking. 

“Ain’t you got something to do, MacGuire?” Arthur calls, following after Charles. “Or you just sitting around gossiping like an old maid?”

“Mum’s the word, English!” Sean calls, laughing. “No gossip from me, swear it on my cold dark heart.”  
  
“Think I could kill him?” Arthur says to Charles, who’s unsuccessfully holding back a grin. 

“Could? Sure,” Charles says, letting his shoulder brush Arthur’s as they walk. “Should?” Charles waggles one hand. “Depends on the day.” He pauses for a moment before adding, “He’ll keep his mouth shut about it, you know. He does, about important things.”

Together, they come to a stop at the hitching post. It’s a busy scene; Kieran is backing Branwen into the wagon harness, Maggie already hitched up beside him, pawing at the ground. At the rear of the wagon, Lenny is loading a few small packs, stopping to help Mary-Beth up into the back with care.  
  
“What’s all this, folks?” Arthur calls. “You going out for provisions?”  
  
“You could say that,” Lenny says, going around to help Kieran with the harnesses. “Mister Duffy here pointed out that we’re desperately short some horses.”  
  
“Shires specifically,” Kieran says, dashing around to check a few of the straps fretfully. “I figure - with the Pinkertons maybe getting close, we could use a few in case we needed to hitch up the wagons to get out quickly.”  
  
“You knew about this?” Arthur says, raising his eyebrows at Charles. “Hell, there’s a stable down in Rhodes if we need more horses.”

Charles just shrugs, “Kieran mentioned a ranch he knows a few days north of here that puts out some impressive draft horses. Man knows his business, I thought it was a good idea to trust his gut.”

“I’ll need help getting the hoses back down, once the shires are hitched up to the wagon,” Kieran says, patting Branwen distractedly. “So Mary-Beth and Lenny are coming to help out.”  
  
Lenny waves his rifle at Arthur. “Also so I can keep them outta trouble. Or, you know.” He grins brightly. “Help negotiate the price.” 

“Lord, please don’t get shot stealing horses,” Arthur sighs. “You got Miss Gaskill with you, will you two idiots please try to behave?”  
  
“They’re gonna be perfect gentlemen,” Mary-Beth calls from the wagon. “They’ve both assured me they’ll be on their best behavior.”

“And,” Charles says softly, just for Arthur’s ears, “If there’s problems with the Pinkertons…”  
  
“They’ll be well enough away,” Arthur says, nodding. It ain’t ideal to be short so many gunners at once, but John’s due back by the end of the week, and the girls a week after that. If they’re trying to keep a low profile, it isn’t the worst way to go about it.

“Morning boys,” Tilly says, coming down the trail with a basket of provisions, a few cured steaks and a dozen cans of beans and the like. “Here you go, Mary-Beth. That should keep you well fed up.”  
  
“Jesus, just how long you think you’re gonna be gone?” Arthur says, “You tryna fatten her up?”  
  
“You want to talk about a lady’s figure?” Tilly says shortly, arching her eyebrows.

Arthur throws up his hands, stepping backwards. “No ma’am. You make sure they have everything they need.”  
  
“That’s what I thought,” Tilly says. She hops up onto the fence beside them, stealing the last of Arthur’s coffee.

“You’re a bunch of vultures,” Arthur gripes, but he lets her take it.

Branwen is settling comfortably into the harness when Lenny hops up on the driver’s seat, taking up the reins. 

“Arthur?” Kieran calls nervously, whipping his hat off and gripping it anxiously in his hands. “Could I have a- a word? Please?”  
  
“What now,” Arthur mutters, but goes when Charles gives him a shove off the fence. “What’s on your mind, Mister Duffy?” 

Kieran bobs his head, shuffling his feet in the grass. They’re far enough away that no one else can hear them, and Arthur waits for a few seconds before says, “Uh...Kieran? You alright there?”  
  
“Yessir, Mister Morgan,” Kieran says instantly. “I just - I just wanted to. Um. Thank you. I know you don’t rightly trust me, and that’s okay! But, it, uh. Means a lot. You talking to me and being kind. To me. And to Mary-Beth. You didn’t need to, and you - “  
  
“Easy, easy, easy,” Arthur says, awkwardly patting the boy on the shoulder. “I think you got me confused with someone else, Kieran.”

“No sir,” Kieran says, smiling up at him shyly. “I might be thick as a yard of lard, but I know you’re a - a good man.” He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, and he seems to gather his courage before he sticks his hand out. Stunned, Arthur reaches out to shake it, and finds the boy’s grip a bit firmer than he would have thought him capable of. Kieran spoils it a bit by welling up, of course. 

“You’re a strange man, Kieran Duffy.”  
  
Kieran laughs wetly, putting his hat back on. “I suppose so. But you didn’t call me O’Driscoll.”

“I suppose not,” Arthur says, still watching him warily. “Alright then, get on with it. Bring us back some good horses,” he mutters awkwardly, waving him off. 

Kieran scampers off to the wagon, climbing up beside Lenny, taking his rifle to place over his knees. 

“Safe travels, you!” Tilly calls from the fence, waving her hand over her head. Arthur rejoins them, watching as Lenny guides the cart out of camp.  
  
“What the hell was that all about?” Arthur says, watching the wagon disappear through the trees. Tilly smirks, shrugging.

“Who can say,” Charles says arily. He tugs on Arthur’s sleeve. “Come on, lets see if Pearson’s cooked anything worth eating.”

*

“Alright there, Sean?” Arthur shouts loudly that evening when he finds Sean asleep at his post. The little shit’s been giving him nothing but lip the last few days - he deserves to give some back.

Sean yelps, stumbling to his feet and whipping the rifle around. “Jaysus Christ, Arthur,” he breathes, lowering the gun. “What’s the big idea, eh? I coulda killed you.”  
  
“Like to see you try,” Arthur says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Turn in why don’t you, I got it from here.”  
  
“ _You’re_ picking up guard duty?” Sean says, but he lets Arthur take the gun.

“Don’t have to be like that,” Arthur says. He hasn’t pulled regular guard duty since before he had to shave every day, but it ain’t like he’s above it. “We’re short handed with everyone outta camp.”

“Alright then,” Sean says, yawning. “Won’t say no.”  
  
Arthur grabs his shoulder before Sean leaves, murmuring. “Check in on Tilly. Make sure Micah’s leaving her alone, huh? She ain’t got any of the girls in camp right now to help her out. He might be...lookin’ for a new target, whether or not it makes any kind of sense.”

“Tch, I seen that girl with a shotgun,” Sean says, “Don’t figure she needs any help from me. But,” he adds, when Arthur glares at him, “I shall do the honorable thing and see to her.”

“Good man,” Arthur says, settling down against the tree stump Sean has just vacated. Sean heads back up to camp, tossing a mocking little salute over his shoulder. 

Shaking his head, Arthur lights a cigarette, briefly casting the woods around him into deep shadow. Camp feels so strange of late, and it’s not just down to the empty places at the fire. It’s tense, hostile - a thousand miles from the laughing warmth of the old days, when the gang was a family and the camp a welcome refuge from the civilized world. These days, walking back into camp feels like stepping ankle deep in tar - dark, cloying, sucking him down. Ain’t just one person to blame for that, either. Dutch and his madness, Charles and his secrets.

Micah.

Arthur sighs, dragging a hand down his face. He’s been dealing with Micah by not thinking too much about him. There’s no reasoning with crazy, and no predicting it either. Arthur’s just been making sure he knows where the man is and keeps his pistol loaded, for all the good it would do him. So he puts Micah out of his mind and does the work in front of him. Truth be told, it’s what he’s been doing since their sprint out of Blackwater, one step after another, not looking up or ahead. For so long he’s taken solace in being Dutch’s big, dumb brute, just following orders and doing as he was told. But even Arthur isn’t so thick he doesn’t know Dutch is leading them farther and farther into the dark. 

But knowing doesn’t mean he has a choice in it. Arthur bought this life with blood and death; there ain’t any kind of life boat for him. The others, though...the others deserve more than a violent, bloody end. 

There’s a rustle from behind him and a wet, rattling breath. “Mister _Morgan_ ,” Micah says before Arthur can turn around. “Lowering yourself to work with the rest of us. How _kind._ ”

“Mister Bell,” Arthur says cheerfully, pulling on his cigarette. “I was just thinkin’ bout you.”  
  
“Oh yeah?”  
  
“Sure,” Arthur drawls. “Stepped in a big pile of horse shit on my way into camp. Damn near ruined my boots.”

“You’re a regular funny man, ain’t you Arthur?” Micah says, sneering. He ambles forward, looming over him. “No _compassion_ for the infirmed?”  
  
“Oh, I’m real broke up about it,” Arthur says, blowing smoke. “What the hell do you want?”  
  
“Nothing, nothing,” Micah says, “Just taking a walk to clear my head. Reflecting on my sins.” He sweeps his hat off, holding it against his chest. “I feel just _terrible_ about Herr Strauss.”  
  
“Uh huh,” Arthur says, staring past him. He’d give just about anything for a Pinkerton raid right now. Maybe Micah would get shot in the crossfire.  
  
“You know, it’s just a funny thing,” Micah says consideringly. “It was you that was doing these little _errands_ for Strauss, wasn’t it? Til you and that fuckin’ redskin disappeared for two weeks.” Micah spits. “Awful suspicious that. Weren’t it just a few days later that the Pinkerton’s caught up with us in Valentine?”

Arthur stands at that, if only to remind the little bastard how many inches he’s got on him. “You sayin’ I’m a rat?” he says softly, pulling on his cigarette until the light from the cherry throws murky shadows across Micah’s face.

“Oh no, I didn’t say nothing,” Micah says, grinning. “I’m just saying, it’s _curious_. Don’t matter much what I think. Dutch though...Dutch is a mighty curious man himself, ain’t he?”

Arthur snorts. “Dutch knows I’m loyal.”  
  
“You sure?” Micah says skeptically, raising his eyebrows. “You _real_ sure? Because I know you are his _son_ , but even a father knows when his boy’s done wrong, don’t he?” Micah shrugs. “Suppose you know better’n me, of course. But...oh, I’d just hate for Dutch to get the wrong idea.”

Arthur rolls his eyes to cover the sudden goosebumps creeping down his arms. He knows that Dutch trusts him, sure and certain as sunrise - but then, he’d also known Dutch would never raise his hand to a woman. He’d known Dutch would never lead them astray, would never sacrifice lives for his vanity. There’s a lot of things he knows about Dutch that don’t seem quite so true anymore. 

“Your concern is touching,” Arthur says in a slow, careful voice. He takes one last drag of his cigarette and flicks the butt at Micah’s chest, chuckling when Micah curses and frantically beats at his shirt. 

“You got some fucking nerve,” Micah says, all pretense at friendliness abruptly abandoned. He’s back to that mad dog fury, wild and dangerous. It makes Arthur feel like he’s won something for once. 

“Yes indeed I do,” Arthur says calmly, but he’s watching Micah close. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides, white-knuckled and shaking with rage. 

“You think you’re so high and mighty don’t you?” Micah snarls, “Saint _Arthur_ , doin’ all these good deeds. Like _hell_. You riding around with that filthy fucking invert.I should put that god damn sunovabitch down, wouldn’t take more than a single fucking shot - right in the belly, so he’d be a _long_ time dy-”

Arthur doesn’t remember moving; one minute he’s listening to Micah running his mouth, throwing a tantrum like a child, and the next he’s got the slimy son of a bitch pinned to a tree by his neck, thumbs digging into his windpipe. His bad shoulder is screaming out in protest, but Arthur doesn’t rightly feel it. There’s not much in him but a violent, shaking fury that makes his heart thunder in his chest, lips pulling back to bare his teeth. 

“Holy shit,” Micah gasps out, now grinning again, “You _are_ fucking him, aren’t you?”

Abruptly, Arthur lets him drop, his soul still screaming for blood. He takes a breath and then another, slow and shuddering. In the ringing silence, Micah hacks wetly. It might’ve been a laugh.

“If you wanna keep drawing breath, you let this drop,” Arthur says. His voice sounds strange to his own ears, low and grating, gone past rage into the unsettling calmness that lives beyond.  
  
“I knew you were a pathetic excuse for a man, but this is a new low,” Micah breathes, running his tongue over bloody teeth. He laughs to himself. “Maybe I should go tell our devoted brothers in those white hoods about the fucking half-bred pervert you’re sticking your dick in, huh? Bet they’d really like to meet him then, wouldn’t they?” Micah steps back, spreading his hands. There’s a sick, delighted smile on his mouth. “Hell, I could just walk into Rhodes and tell a few of those fine folks what kind of _beast_ he is, and I bet they’d stir up a mob just to tear him limb from limb. I bet no one would even swing for it. It’d be a god damn service to the community." He blinks at Arthur with those dull lizard eyes. "Of course, first I could let Bill loose on him, let him do whatever he wanted-”

Arthur knows better, God knows he does, but his body ain’t talking to his head right now, just the fury in his blood. It ain’t even like he cares what Micah makes of it, not him nor the rest of the world, but this thing he and Charles got is - precious. Some pebble of kindness that Charles has patiently dug out of him over days and weeks and months, unasked for and all the more cherished for it. God knows Arthur don’t got much in the way of fertile soil to grow something as lovely and delicate as this on his own. It’s Charles, like a lodestone, pulling those scattered splinters of goodness in him to the surface. Why Charles bothers, Arthur don’t know, and he’s too much of a coward to question it. 

So he throws the punch without thinking about much except how nice it would be to see Micah walking around with a black eye, and how much he’d prefer silence to the filth spilling out of him. Micah staggers but there’s a feral joy in his eyes now, like Arthur’s taken some shackles off his temper and turned it loose. In one motion, Micah draws his knife and flings himself at Arthur madly, shouting and laughing as he tries to stick the blade up through his ribs. It’s only a lifetime of back alley brawling that keeps Arthur out of the sweep of the blade, dancing back instinctively. Micah’s a bloody terror in a melee fight, but he’s not as careful or as quick as Arthur. Arthur’s seen the man gouge eyes and bite noses, but jerking around with a knife in his hand makes him sloppy. In the chaos, Arthur makes a grab for Micah’s hand, fingers twisting and wrenching into his wrist until Micah curses and drops the blade. With a violent shove, Arthur gets him down onto the ground, sitting on his chest and drawing back a fist to beat the squirming little coward’s face in. 

“Arthur! What the hell are you - _ENOUGH!_ ” Hosea’s voice, Arthur thinks, and then Hosea’s hands are on him, wrenching him off of Micah as easy as he’d done when Arthur and John used to brawl. 

“Thank god you got here,” Micah says, coughing, “That mad man just launched his self at me for no -”  
  
“Oh shut your goddamn mouth, Micah,” Hosea snaps, still holding Arthur’s arm in a twist behind his back. “You think I’m that stupid?”

“Hosea - what on earth is all the racket?” Dutch calls. Beyond Micah, Arthur can see Dutch at the edge of camp, holding up a lantern and taking in the scene with a hard, unflinching gaze. “Jesus Christ, Arthur, what the hell were you thinking?”

Arthur spits into the leaf litter, shaking his head. A few curious faces have appeared at the edge of the line of trees, peering in at them. Miss Grimshaw looks like she just bit a lemon. Arthur thinks that whatever else comes his way, he’s gonna be getting stale food and the cold shoulder for the foreseeable future.  
  
Dutch strides down to them, offering a hand to Micah as he staggers to his feet, wincing and breathing hard through his teeth. He makes a show of seeing to Micah, looking critically at his swollen eye, the still-healing injuries from his fight with Javier days before. When he seems satisfied, he pats Micah on the shoulder before rounding on Arthur.  
  
“You’re going after invalids now, Arthur?” Dutch sneers, crouching down to look Arthur in the eye. After a moment, Hosea lets go of Arthur’s arm, letting him shake off the pins and needles. “I know you’re a mean sonuvabitch, Arthur, but this? What the hell’s got into you?”  
  
“Now, Dutch,” Hosea starts, but Dutch talks over him - “I won’t have you disrespecting members of the gang like this, Arthur. _Especially_ not Micah.” Dutch stares at him, steadily. “God knows the man is paying the price for your laziness.”  
  
“Sure, Dutch,” Arthur says lightly. He isn’t even surprised when Dutch strikes him, open palmed and stinging, on the cheek.  
  
“Don’t lip off to me, boy,” Dutch says, low and dangerous. Behind Dutch, lit by a pool of moonlight showing through the trees, Micah grins.  
  
Arthur just nods, cracking his neck. There's blood in his mouth; the slap sliced the inside of his lip open on his teeth. No matter. God knows he’s been hit harder and for less reason.  
  
“I think it’s time you turned in, Arthur,” Hosea says, pulling Arthur up to his feet. Now with the blood lust past him, Arthur feels exhausted. His shoulder is screaming, throbbing down his arm and into his elbow. “Bill! Get your ass down here and take watch - no arguments!”

Dutch turns back to Micah, gently clapping him on the shoulder. As Hosea leads Arthur away, he hears Dutch’s soft, furtive apologies and the simpering noises Micah makes in reply.  
  
Just before they pass out of range, Micah says, “You know, Dutch, I been meanin’ to talk to you about Arthur. I’m just mighty concerned about his...loyalties.”

*

Sleep doesn't come for him that night, but Charles does, sliding in on soft feet when the dark around camp has reached its utmost depth and the world is quiet. Arthur is propped up on his cot, sketching aimlessly - Tilly’s profile with firework dust coming down around her, the kind, laughing curl of Sean’s mouth, a fawn tucked delicately in high grass. Anything to calm the vibrating anxiety beneath his breastbone. 

During his recovery, Arthur had grown used to these private moments; Charles had been in and out of his tent so often, checking on his healing. Arthur expected these visits to disappear with the wound. Charles is so very careful, with Arthur, with the thing they have between them. Arthur had thought Charles would step back from this intimacy once he healed, if only to preserve their fragile discretion. 

Again, he was wrong. Charles invites himself effortlessly into the spaces around Arthur, easy and unself-conscious, as if he knows how hungry Arthur is for his company despite lacking the words to say it.  
  
“Twice in a day?” Arthur says, only half joking. “People will talk.”

Charles sits on the edge of his cot, staring ahead at nothing. “Think this counts as tomorrow, but even so, people are already talking.” He sounds resigned, but amused. 

Arthur sighs. "Fair enough." 

Charles looks over at him, waiting. When Arthur looks back to his journal, Charles sighs and gently tugs the book from his hands, setting it aside. "What happened?" 

“Micah ran his mouth, I hit him, easy as that.”  
  
“Uh-huh,” Charles says, unconvinced. 

“It’s true!”

Charles shakes his head. “That's what he wanted you to do, you know. He’s a bastard, but a smart one.”

“You’re not wrong,” Arthur mutters. “Still felt good, though.” 

"Listen," Charles says, turning to him, his voice suddenly low and intent. “I want to go hunting.”

Arthur leans back, frowning. The redirection is jarring, as is Charles’ sudden resolve. Not that he wanted to spend any more time thinking about Micah, but still, it’s odd. “Uh - okay? Where you going?”

Charles shakes his head. “Not me, us. Together. Hosea gave me a map of some impressive game through the region, and -”  
  
“Oh, don’t tell me he’s got you on that too-”  
  
“-I thought we should go out. Try and scare some of it up.”  
  
Arthur stares at Charles for a few beats, searching his face for some sort of tell. They go out hunting plenty, but it’s always out of need - food or pelts, things like that. Not just for trophies. “Uh, sure, okay,” Arthur says, shrugging. “Once John and Lenny and the girls are back we can -”  
  
“No,” Charles says, “Let’s go tomorrow. What else have you got to do?”  
  
“What?” Arthur says, laughing slightly. “You kidding me? We’re down a heap of people right now, just wait a few days and we can head out-”

“They’ll be back any day now,” Charles says, “It’s not worth wasting time. There’s supposed to be some great moose up past Annesburg -”  
  
“That’s days away!” Arthur says, now truly confused. “I can’t be gone that long when we’re so short, the damn Pinkertons are right on our heels-”

“All the better to keep a low profile, then,” Charles says, implacable. “We’re not that short. We got Bill, Javier, Sean, Hosea, Tilly in a pinch. Even Micah can keep watch, cough or no cough.” He pauses, then adds, “After Dutch and Hosea, you’re the most recognizable man here. It might be good to go and be seen somewhere else for a few days.”

Arthur shakes his head, reaching out to pick up Charles’ hand in his, brushing the pad of his thumb over Charles’ knuckles. “I can’t. There’s too much going on right now. I don’t wanna be gone if something happens and -”  
  
“Please,” Charles says, turning his hand to grip Arthur’s. Charles’ eyes are on their interlaced hands, fingers gripping tight. It’s not something that Charles has to say too often; usually, Arthur is falling over himself to do things before he needs to ask. Charles takes a shaky breath and repeats himself softly. “Please, Arthur.”

Arthur swallows, staring into the rich warmth of Charles eyes, looking for something, anything that could explain this sudden - desperation. That’s what it is. Underneath the calm, Charles is close to panic.

“Why do you wanna do this so bad?” he asks quietly. “Why can’t it wait?”  
  
But Charles just shakes his head, looking away. When he says nothing more, Arthur tugs him forward, pressing a careful, apologetic kiss against his mouth. It reawakens the pain in the cut on the inside of his mouth, but it’s worth it.  
  
“I can’t,” he says, though it tears at his chest. He tips his forehead against Charles’. “I’m sorry, I want to. But I can’t, not yet.”

Charles leaves not long after, his eyes and mind on something that lies unknown, far beyond the horizon. For the rest of the night, sleep ducks away from Arthur like a swatted fly, always in sight but never in reach. Eventually, birdsong emerges from the quiet night and dawn wells up, spilling dingy light through the canvas. Miserably unrested, Arthur swings his feet out of bed, carrying the exhaustion, the guilt, like a ten pound weight on his chest. 

*

“Arthur my boy,” Hosea calls, striding over to where Arthur’s flipping through the inventory for their first aid supplies. It was one of Struass’ duties to keep it stocked and no one’s filled it since he left; they’re low on everything. Arthur rubs his eyes, glancing up at him.

“Hey there, Hosea.”

“Dear God, you look awful,” Hosea says cheerfully, leaning against the back of the wagon.

“Thank you,” Arthur drawls. “Ain’t you kind.”

Hosea laughs shortly, shaking his head. “I thought you and Charles were going out hunting today.”

Arthur gives him a long look, sighing as he throws down the inventory. “He told you about that?”  
  
Hosea shrugs, looking out over the lake. “Told me? Hell, it was my idea.”

Arthur stares at him, crossing his arms over his chest. “Say again?”  
  
“It was my idea,” Hosea says easily, “Thought you boys could use some fun for once. Things've been difficult lately. Ain’t much of a life if there’s no enjoying it.”  
  
Arthur just stares at him, waiting. Eventually, Hosea darts a look at him, smiling sheepishly.

“Might be I heard some of the things Micah said to you last night,” he admits quietly. 

Arthur freezes. “Is that so.”  
  
Hosea gives him a look. “And if you think that told me anything I didn’t already know, you must think I’m as stupid as I am old.”  
  
Arthur heaves out a sigh, turning to look out at the water. There’s a flush building on his neck, creeping up to his face.

“Don’t know what you-”  
  
“Arthur,” Hosea sighs, “I’ve known you almost twenty years. You think this matters to me, then you owe me a god damned apology.”  
  
“Alright, alright, alright,” Arthur said, dashing his hand back through his hair. He doesn’t rightly know what to say, but there’s a tightness in his throat that surprises him. He hadn’t really let himself think about people knowing, not even with Sean grinning at him all the time. The soft approval in Hosea’s face is something he didn’t even know he wanted. He swallows hard and bobs his head in a nod.  
  
“So you’re not going hunting?” Hosea asks.

“Now? With all this going on?” Arthur shakes his head. “Come on now, Hosea. The game’ll still be there in a few weeks, once all this has calmed down.”

Hosea is quiet a moment, looking out over the still water with a frown twisting his mouth. “You know, Bessie and I tried to leave the life once upon a time.”  
  
Arthur sighs heavily. “Here we go…”  
  
Hosea reaches out and cuffs the side of his head without looking. “It didn’t take, of course. I wasn’t always the man she needed me to be. She was...a fine woman. Better than me in every way. Tryna measure up to her saved my life, I think, in more ways than one.” Hosea tips his head to look at Arthur. “I carved out time for her, when I could. Lookin’ back, it wasn’t nearly enough.” He sighs deeply. “She loved me anyway, of course. But she deserved more than the things I gave her. Don’t think I’ll every stop wondering what we’d do if we had more time.”  
  
Arthur looks away, tucking his arms tight around himself.

“Old men don’t like to watch young people make the same mistakes they did,” Hosea says gently. He reaches out, squeezing Arthur’s shoulder. “Take the trip. We’ll get along just fine without you for a spell.”  
  
“But Dutch-”

“I will deal with Dutch,” Hosea says firmly. When Arthur opens his mouth, Hosea cuts him off, saying, “ _And_ Micah. I’m not still alive outta dumb luck and good fortune, Arthur. It’ll be fine.”  
  
Arthur sighs, swallowing dryly. “Don’t want to leave you in a bad way.”  
  
“You’re not,” Hosea says, giving him a soft, gentle smile. “The world will keep on spinning if you slip away for a few days. God knows I love you, Arthur, but we won’t all lose our minds without you putting fires out for us all hours of the day and night. You deserve a break.” He pauses, and then adds lowly, “And so does Charles.”  
  
That’s a low blow, Arthur thinks, but it doesn’t make it untrue.  
  
“Fine,” he mutters with poor grace. “I’ll go shoot a damn moose. You happy now?”  
  
Hosea grins, bright and relieved. “More than you know, my boy, more than you know.”

*

He finds Charles hauling water over to Pearson’s wagon, sweating V’s down the front and back of his shirt. His hair is drifting out of the cord he’s used to tie it back, sticking to the sweat on his forehead. 

“You just watchin’?” Charles asks, chest heaving when he takes a break, grabbing a mug and dipping it in the barrel of water, throwing most of it back in one long pull. “Or were you thinkin’ about helping?”  
  
“Oh I would,” Arthur says, smiling a bit. “Just this damn shoulder of mine…”  
  
Charles rolls his eyes grandly, polishing off the water. “What’s going on?”  
  
“I was thinking,” Arthur says slowly.

Charles’ mouth twitches. “Not a good start.” 

“I, uh, was thinking maybe that hunting trip ain’t such a bad idea, after all.”  
  
Charles blinks at him, and Arthur has a full five seconds of panic - that Charles has changed his mind, that it’s already too late, that this was a foolish idea to begin with - before he smiles blindingly, relieved and elated.

“Alright then,” Charles says, still grinning. “What changed your mind?”  
  
“Hosea’s an old nag,” Arthur mumbles. “But ...not one without a bit of good sense, I suppose.”  
  
Charles laughs and gives Arthur a gentle look that feels like absolution. “Good. That’s good. We’ll leave at first light.”  
  
There’s plenty of reasons it’s a bad idea; it’s foolishness on top of foolishness to spread themselves this thin. But for the moment, Arthur allows himself this selfishness, thinking only of Charles’ crooked smile, the gift of the open road. All the rest could follow after - a chance like this was enough to salve whatever wounds Dutch had in store for them, tied up and knotted in his dying dream.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Arthur says, finding the words to be true as he says them. He looks at the perfect picture Charles casts, sweaty, relieved, smiling at Arthur like he’s something worth treasuring, not a beat up old outlaw carrying more sins than the devil himself. But for once Arthur allows himself to bask in the affection, to pretend for a few moments that it’s something he deserves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me over at [allthingsmustfall](https://allthingsmustfall.tumblr.com/)


	8. Chapter 8

Any excitement Arthur feels about the trip stutters the next morning as they tack up the horses, early enough that dawn is still making a murky attempt through the high ceiling of clouds. There are a suspicious number of people up and about despite the hour. Tilly’s keeping Sean company at the scout fire, her sewing splayed over her lap. Javier and Hosea are at the main table, speaking in low tones. Miss Grimshaw, viciously folding laundry, looks annoyed and upset, but when doesn’t she? Arthur’s been on the receiving end of her temper enough times to know what she makes of this little trip of theirs. But for once he doesn’t go borrowing trouble. Instead, he watches as Charles contentedly checks his weapons, a smile creasing one side of his mouth. 

When he casts his eye back up at camp, Dutch is ducking out of his tent, his mouth pressed firm and distant. Hosea must have talked with him the night before, had promised he would. And damn if that didn't make Arthur feel like a child, clinging to Hosea’s apron strings. God knows he doesn’t need anyone fighting battles for him, but lately it seems Hosea and Charles have done little else but fight to take work off his plate. He doesn’t know what to make of that, but a small, weak part of himself is relieved. He can’t remember the last time someone had been so staunchly in his corner; the thought makes him inexplicably sad.

As Arthur watches, Dutch takes Javier’s coffee out of his hands and strides down to the hitching post, waving off Javier’s muttered complaint. Micah has roused now, too; Arthur catches sight of him grabbing food from Pearson’s wagon. He can hear the coughing from here. 

“Early start, eh boys?” Dutch says, shining a grin at them. It’s innocuous enough, but there’s a sickly edge in the words that makes Arthur’s skin crawl.

“Tryna get ahead of the weather,” Arthur says, fitting the bridle over Roisin’s head. “Looks like rain’s threatening.”

“Could always delay a day or two,” Dutch says, watching him intently. 

Arthur sees Charles’ face goes blank over Dutch’s shoulder and he shrugs, talking before Charles can wade in. “Sooner we’re gone, sooner we’re back.”

“Suppose that’s the case. Mister Smith, I believe Miss Jackson put together some food from our meager stores for your journey. Go fetch it.”

The clear command in the words makes Arthur’s temper flare, but Charles sends him a quieting look. “Of course.”

When Charles has retreated, Dutch turns the full weight of his stare on him, heavy and unblinking. Arthur busies himself rechecking Roisin’s girth.

“You sure this is a good idea?” Dutch says finally, his voice low and gentle. _Come now son, tell me what’s wrong_. Arthur swallows, shrugging.

“Charles and Hosea seem to think so.”

“Didn’t ask what they think.”

Arthur sighs, turning to face him. “We won’t be long, Dutch. Hell, you don’t even seem to think the Pinkertons are a problem.”

“They aren’t,” Dutch says, his lip curling. “But I just find it _interesting_ that you’re turning tail when they seem to be so close.”

“I ain’t running,” Arthur says. He isn’t calm, but he can fake it well enough - he'd barely even flinched at the words. “It’s a hunting trip. I’ve been gone longer before.”

“Yes,” Dutch says coldly. “You have. I wonder who you meet up with on all those long excursions of yours, Arthur. Must be all sorts of _fascinating_ people.”

Arthur goes still and Dutch stares at him, watching the words sink in with something like satisfaction. “I - god dammit, Dutch, you know I’m loyal, what are you-”

“All set there, Arthur?” Hosea calls, jogging down out of camp. Arthur’s seen the strange way alligators blink, a second eyelid pulling back over dead, yellow eyes. It’s not unlike the shift in Dutch’s expression now, going from suspicious and calculating to neutral and open without so much as a change to his posture. Arthur swallows down bile and nods.

“Just about. Charles is just grabbing the provisions.”

“Good man,” Hosea says, clapping Arthur on the shoulder. Behind him, still lingering up at camp, Micah is watching the scene play out with a cool, inert smile. When he sees Arthur looking at him, he raises his coffee in a mocking wave. 

“Just keep an eye out,” Hosea says. “Trouble tends to come up out of nowhere, especially where you’re concerned.”

“I won’t talk to no strangers, promise,” Arthur says, forcing a laugh. “Charles’ll keep me in line.”

“As best I can,” Charles says, returning with a heavy leather satchel. He shoulders past Dutch without a word. “All set?”

“Figure so,” Arthur mutters, swallowing tightly. He’s never been so eager to be out from under Dutch’s observation. Hosea slaps Arthur on the back as he goes to saddle up. Dutch says nothing, only pulls out a cigarette and lights it, watching him from under the brim of his hat. 

Once they’re up in the saddles, there isn’t anything to do but leave, but apprehension still clings to Arthur’s heels. He tries to place it, but it just shifts nervously inside him, sourcessless and tangible, sitting a stone in his guts. He checks his gear once more and anxiously scans the faces up at camp. Tilly and Sean raise their hands in farewell; Javier has drifted over to join them at the fire and only nods solemnly when he notices Arthur watching them. 

Arthur runs his tongue along his teeth, fretting, until Charles catches his eyes. His expression is gentle, patient, and when he asks, “All ready?” it’s the easiest thing in the world for Arthur to nod, resolved.

“You boys take care now,” Hosea calls as they trot out of camp. Before they hit the tree line, Arthur hears Micah call down to Dutch.

“Where they hell they headed?”

Dutch hocks up spit. When he answers his voice is low and annoyed. “Hunting some damn beast up past Annesburg.” The disgust in his tone wrenches at the vice on Arthur’s rib cage, but he fights the urge to look back, forcing himself to drag in a slow, calming breath.

Just before they pass out of earshot, Dutch coughs. It goes on for a while, the echo chasing them down the trail and out to the road.

*

Charles lets him stew for a few hours, but by the time they’re eating lunch in their saddles he seems to realize that Arthur is just digging himself deeper and deeper into his own mind. So he starts speaking softly, talking about his mother’s people, the faint, delicate memories he has of those years before she died, the way his father had looked at her with such love and devotion. 

“She sounds like a good woman,” Arthur says, thinking of his own mother, her singing voice, her gentle hands, the laugh lines around her eyes. It hurts as much as always, but it’s not a bad pain, just the ache of something fondly remembered. 

“I think she was,” Charles says. “I often wonder what - well, there’s no knowing now, really. I think she would have liked you, though.”

“Thought you said she was wise,” Arthur mutters. He can’t even think about what his mother would make of Charles, or this small, fragile thing they’ve grown together. He knows what his father would make of it, and that’s almost enough to send him back down that twisting road of worry and regret.

“She was,” Charles says, unconcerned. “You’re a crack shot. Honorable. Well-mannered.” He grins at Arthur cheekily. “Handsome.”

“Outlaw, thief, murderer,” Arthur says back, flushing. “Invert.”

Charles rolls his eyes. “I like to think she wouldn’t much care about that.”

“So she’d be okay with you taking up with a thieving murderer?” Arthur says sarcastically, earning a _look_ from Charles that shuts him right up. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I’m just - I don’t know what’s wrong with me today. I’m all - wound up.”

“Best you’re on the road then,” Charles says. “Maybe you can get in a firefight with some lawmen. That always puts you in a good mood.”

“Don’t joke,” Arthur mutters, casting a look up and down the empty stretch of road. “That’s the last thing we need.”

They continue on in silence for a spell, but Arthur’s mind keeps circling back to something that Charles said, worrying at it like an aching tooth.

Finally, he asks, “You mean that, about what you reckon she’d think?”

Charles glances over at him, considering. “About men like me?” 

“‘Bout men like, uh, us, I guess,” Arthur corrects awkwardly. He hasn’t thought much about it, not in these terms, but he ain’t ever lied to himself about the sort of man he is when it comes to violence and cruelty; lying doesn’t seem to serve much of a purpose when it’s about something as good as loving someone.

Charles smiles wryly. “The way I figure, it wouldn’t do much good to suppose otherwise. If I’m telling myself a story, it may as well be a happy one.” He frowns out at the horizon. “It’s hard enough to keep a child alive out on the prairie, and it’s only worse on the reservations. I’d like to think she’d be glad I’m healthy.” He tips his head at Arthur, “And that I got good men watching my back. All the rest is just - details.”

Ahead, the remains of an abandoned plantation are creeping into view. Fallen splendor, Arthur thinks with vicious satisfaction as they pass the ruins of slave quarters, so small and poorly made they’ve nearly returned to the earth, even while the big house still sticks proudly out of the fallow ground like a mausoleum. 

“Reckon she wouldn’t want you down this way,” Arthur sighs. He’s seen too many of those fools in the forest, with their hoods and hate and burning crosses, and he’s heard the words muttered in town when he rides through with Lenny and Charles. Doesn’t feel right to be thankful there hasn’t been any violence yet, as if that’s any kind of bar to set, to be glad it’s just been slurs and threats and sneers. Charles, Lenny, Tilly - they deserve better than that. Javier, too. 

Charles huffs out a humorless laugh. “I never cut up myself up about the way I am, but these folk down here…” He shakes his head. “My father was one strike, my mother was two, and if they ever needed a third reason…”

“Don’t,” Arthur says, quickly, softly. It’s too close to what Micah had threatened for comfort, and the easy way he says it makes Arthur realize it’s not the first time it’s crossed Charles’ mind. Of course it isn’t. They’ve been down here for months, of course Charles knows about the target hung around his neck, waiting for some lucky, hateful fool to make a go of it. But Charles has never raised a word. Arthur shuts his eyes, guilt spreading through his gut like nausea. He should have realized, should have done - something. Beating Jeremiah Compson to death doesn’t seem like near enough, in retrospect. 

Charles looks at him strangely, his head tipped to one side. “Like I said,” he says eventually, “I’m lucky to have a good man watching my back.”

It’s on his tongue to protest, to remind Charles of the man he is, but the look on Charles’ face makes him swallow the words. If he’s gonna tell a story, it may as well be a happy one, right? So he nods stiffly and turns his eyes back to the road. 

It’s just as well he does, because up ahead, a pair of riders are coming into view. Arthur unconsciously makes sure his pistol is at his hip, running his thumb down the grip. 

“Hey there folks,” he calls out, plastering a smile over his unease as best he can, watching the two of them closely. After a moment’s inspection, he realizes they’re just kids - pimply and sunburnt, riding ancient nags.

“Hey there mister,” one calls back. His voice ain’t even done changing, Arthur thinks with a smile. The kid puffs out his chest, trying to look intimidating. He’s got an old varmint rifle slung across his back, the kind Arthur had once used to shoot squirrels. 

“Good day for riding,” Arthur says, ignoring Charles exasperated look.

“Thought I was supposed to keep you from talking to strangers,” Charles whispers.

“They ain’t strangers, they’re about fourteen years old,” Arthur says back, equally quiet. The kids rein up when they get close. The younger one, maybe ten, is trying to give him a hard stare, but mostly he just looks like he needs to take a piss. 

“Suppose so,” the older one says, shrugging. “Would be better if it weren’t for the fuckin’ government folks up at the border.”

“That so?” Arthur says, affecting a bored tone. “What sort of government people? Surveyors?”

“It’s those damn Pinkertons,” the young one says bitterly. “Our da says they’re just leeches, sticking their noses in our business when they ain’t even from here. They searched our saddle bags and took our lunch!”

“Hush, Leonidas,” the older one says. He turns back to Charles and Arthur. “They’re a buncha bastards is what they are. They’re stopping everyone up at the New Handover border, says they’re lookin’ for _outlaws_. Like they could find their peckers with both hands a whore to help them.”

Beside him, Charles makes a noise that says he’s trying to hold in a laugh. 

“You ain’t wrong about that,” Arthur says. “What’s Washington know ‘bout life out here?”

“Damn right,” Leonidas says, looking mollified. “Next time, we’re taking the old hunting path over through Sagebrook. Those lazy bastards don’t leave the main roads.”

“Wise man,” Arthur says, pulling a map out of his saddle bag and urging Roisin over to the kids. “I’m afraid we’re from down south a bit further, don’t know this track of land so well just yet. You mind showing us how to get up through Sagebrook?”

The older kid seems pleased as punch to be asked, and he launches into a long explanation, rattling off landmarks and gesturing at the map animatedly. Arthur listens patiently and thanks him sincerely once he’s done. 

“They really take your food?” Charles asks, just as Arthur is ready to continue on. 

Leonidas nods, pouting. “Our ma made it for us before she sent us down here. We’re supposed to meet our uncle down in Rhodes, and now we ain’t got nothing to eat ‘til we get there and it’s _hours_ away.”

“Here,” Charles says, handing over two cans of beans out of their provisions. After a second’s thought, he adds some canned strawberries as well. The older boy takes them gratefully, stuttering out his thanks.

“Th-thank you, sir,” he says, fumbling to stow it away. “That’s uh - that’s real kind.”

Charles just winks at him. “It isn’t much. But maybe you just don’t tell anybody you pointed us the right way, huh? Wouldn’t want anyone thinking we were outlaws.”

Both boys laugh, but they nod, grinning happily as they trot away.

“You old softie,” Arthur says, grinning himself. They’ve got another two miles before they have to turn off the main road and he feels oddly buoyed. If the Pinkertons were this far north, then maybe they weren’t getting close, after all.

“They were just kids,” Charles says, but he’s smiling. “C’mon. Let's let the girls stretch their legs before we’re back on narrow paths,” he says, urging Taima into an easy canter. Arthur spurs on behind him, watching the wind pick Charles’ hair off his back, shining in the midday sun. 

*

They cross over into New Handover without incident, rejoining the road a few miles north of the border. By the time sunset creeps up on them, the temperature has started to drop and for the first time all autumn it actually feels like the change of seasons. They’re a good distance north of Rhodes by now, steadily climbing up into the foothills of Appalachia. Earlier, they'd needed to stop to pull out heavier jackets. Charles has pulled on fingerless gloves.

“I’ll take first watch,” Charles says, once they’ve finished supper. “We’re north of the border, but we should probably keep an eye out for the Pinkerton patrols, just in case.”

Arthur can’t say he’s not disappointed, but Charles kisses him as if to make up for it, fingers brushing the back of his neck, beneath his collar. “Get some rest.”

“Fine, fine,” Arthur mutters. “Just don’t let me sleep too long. You rode as much as I did today."

Charles sighs. “I’m not that generous, Arthur. I’ll wake you for your watch.”

“Think we’ll make that moose’s territory tomorrow?”

Charles shakes his head. “No, we’ve got another day’s travel. Probably the day after tomorrow, if we can make good time.”

Arthur yawns, stretching before he turns to their tent. Even with all the errands he’s been running around Rhodes and St. Denis, it’s been weeks since he’s spent a whole day in the saddle. He’s exhausted.

“Alright,” he says. “Should be back down to camp within the week.”

Charles looks away, shrugging. After a moment, he says, “Sounds about right.”

*

_That night, Arthur dreams._

_This is a forest. It is lush and dark and sprawling, and he knows that he could walk for years and never find its edge. And in knowing that he realizes he has had this dream before. A dozen times, a hundred, burning away like mist when he wakes._

_He sits in the silver light cast by an ever-full moon, looking at the reflection of stars in a deep, black pond. He is uneasy and tired and something lives in the darkness beyond this glen that is hungry and rotten and cruel. It is far away, he knows, but it is drawing closer, ever closer. It stinks like carrion and blood._

_But this glen, this moment outside of time, is safe and kind, even as the darkness rises and falls like waves around him. He trails his hand through the water, and the ripples move slowly away from his fingers, the stars bending and swirling in the inky depths._

_And then - movement. So slight and quiet that he nearly misses it, in among the reeds across the water. There is a soft golden glow, the suggestion of grace, and just as he realizes what he is seeing, the dream_ – 

–pops like a burst balloon, the shards settling down gently around his slowly waking mind. 

“Arthur,” Charles says gently, his hand curled around Arthur’s shoulder. Right, Arthur thinks. Yes. New Handover. Hunting. _Charles._ “It’s your watch.”

 _There’s something I’m forgetting,_ Arthur thinks, even as he sits up in his blankets, but it’s too slippery to grasp. By the time he’s standing, even that thought has fled from him, and he heads out to the fire, rifle in hand.

The dream recedes below memory, leaving Arthur only with a lingering sense of safety, followed uneasily by the prey-like worry of the hunted. In the dark of midnight, Arthur watches the horizon, thinking of gold and antlers, not knowing why.

*

Arthur waits until the sky is pink with dawn and makes the coffee before rousing Charles from sleep, pressing a kiss against his jaw, cheek, and lips as Charles comes awake under his hands. They almost get too carried away in one another - Charles sleep-drunk and pliant, Arthur struck dumb with the easy trust Charles gives him, calm and unrestrained - before they both remember they’re too close to the road for such foolishness. 

“Better than Grimshaw banging the kettle, though,” Charles says, taking his first few gulps of coffee. Arthur laughs, packing up the bed linens and tent.

“I can holler at you ‘bout your donations, if you’d feel more at home,” he says, letting Charles press his face into the back of his neck where they stand by horses. Day is coming up by inches on the rolling hills around them, mist still burning off the deep valleys. It’s lovely, he thinks, and all the more lovely for Charles’ arms wrapped around him. Sturdy. Solid. 

“I’m fully at home,” Charles says quietly, pressing a kiss behind Arthur’s ear. “Right here.”

The road north is quiet and sloping, easing like a river between the peaks that rise and fall around them. The longer they ride, the more color bleeds into the trees around them. By noontime, the hills are brilliantly aflame, all shades of red and yellow and gold bursting up to meet a slate-grey sky. 

“Good lord, I hate the south,” Arthur says, marveling, when they stop long enough to eat and tend the horses. They’ve picked their way carefully down off the trail, letting Roisin and Taima graze in a rich, high-grass meadow as they eat lunch. 

Charles, working his way through one of the wild apples they’d scavenged from the heavy trees along road, smiles. “You and me both.” 

Arthur turns to him, watching as Charles stares out at the sprawling hills, the quiet satisfaction in his eyes, and is just starting to wonder if they can delay long enough to find a quiet, private spot together when he hears the distant jangle of tack. He doesn’t think much of it at first, but Charles has a better view down the trail and he goes still, his eyes widening. 

“What?” Arthur says, turning to see, but Charles shushes him, pulling him back off the trail.

Their horses are a good quarter mile down in the meadow, and from the road they’d be difficult to see with the branches crisscrossing the line of sight from the trail. Together in the slim cover of a tree-trunk, Arthur and Charles are far easier to spot. For a moment, Arthur thinks this might be an excuse for Charles to pull him close, but there’s nothing in the tight set of his shoulders that says this is seduction. Arthur turns onto his belly beside him, watching the road through the high grass and leaf litter, waiting. 

When the travelers crest the hill, Arthur breathes out a curse and presses himself flat on the ground. There’s five men on horseback, and while Arthur doesn’t recognize most of them, there’s no mistaking the severe, unsmiling face in the lead. It’s Andrew Milton, dressed up smart and wearing his bowler, sunlight glinting off his polished badge.

“ - don’t know, I figure they ain’t coming this way after all.”

Milton looks annoyed, his mouth pressed into an unpleasant sneer. “Oh is that what you _figure_ , Agent O’Malley? You spend a lot of time coming to that _inspired_ conclusion?”

“I’m just sayin’ boss, we didn’t turn anything up at the border, and -”

“I am well aware of your failings, O’Malley,” Milton sighs. “The information is good and fresh. Those two degenerates are headed north.”

“You ain’t dragged none of the other units this far north,” another man says sullenly. ”Why we wasting our time with these two, anyway? Thought you wanted their boss.”

“You’re worse than a child, Stern, quit your damned complaining. I want all of them,” Milton says. “And by God, I will have them. But if we want to kill the hydra, we must chop off all its heads.”

By now the group has drawn level with them. Arthur stops breathing, ducking his head down low. 

“We’ll stop in Van Horn a few days,” Milton says as they continue up the road. “See if we can pick up their trail.” He laughs. “Those damn fools won’t know what hit them.”

They lay in the grass until even the faintest noise from the party has faded. Finally, Arthur rolls to his feet, staring stonily up the road. 

“We’ll cross over to the Post Road,” Charles says, whistling for the horses. “If they’re going headed to Van Horn, they’ll be taking Eastern Ridge Road. It’ll be easy enough to steer clear of them.”

“Didn’t you hear them?” Arthur says, spinning around. “We can’t keep goin, we got to get back down to camp and -”

“I heard him,” Charles says calmly. “They said they’re the only team this far north. And while Milton is looking for us, he’s not looking for the others. He can’t be in two places at once.” He slides a hand onto Arthur’s shoulder, meeting his eyes. “As long as he’s looking wasting his time up here lookin’ for us, the others are safe. We weren’t even going to swing through Van Horn. They’re not even looking in the right place.”

Arthur heaves out a sigh, looking up the road. “How’d he even know where to look, though?” he asks. “That don’t make any sense - he said something about getting information -”

Charles shrugs. “It was probably just been someone who saw us riding down in Lemoyne and turned us in for the bounty.” 

That could be true, Arthur thinks, but this feels like too near a miss to be down to someone recognizing them from their wanted posters. “Charles, I don’t know, this is -”

“It’s just a few days more,” Charles says, tipping their foreheads together. “Please? Those lawmen couldn’t find their peckers with both hands and a whore to help them, remember?”

Unwillingly, Arthur laughs. Charles tightens his fingers on the back of his neck, wordlessly reassuring. If he’s being honest with himself, Arthur wants to be talked out of turning back down to camp. There’s plenty of good reasons to stay the course, but the one that convinces him is the pleading look in Charles’ eyes. It was hard to deny him anything when it was within Arthur’s grasp to provide it. 

Arthur draws in a slow breath and when he exhales, he nods. Charles’ shoulders sag in relief. 

“Guess we can fill Dutch in when we get back,” he admits. But Charles has turned away, watching Roisin and Taima trot back up to them. He doesn’t respond. 

*

By nightfall, the temperature has continued its slow descent and Arthur’s breath hangs in the air before him. They make camp in the lee of a cliff, decently off the road and concealed by a jagged outcropping of rock, so when Arthur draws Charles down on top of him in the warmth of the tent, Charles goes without complaint. They kiss for a long time, slow and meandering, and it feels like it’s hours before Charles works him out of his clothes, using his fingers and mouth on him again until Arthur is a shaking mess - it isn’t until later that he realizes Charles had slipped three careful fingers inside him this time, which explains the extra stretch he’d felt, too busy shaking apart in Charles arms to notice or care. He sucks Charles off again, afterward, listening to his soft, muffled cries and the broken crack in his voice when he spills, Arthur’s name on his lips. 

“I’ll take first watch,” Arthur says, grinning down at Charles, who’s drowsing in the bedrolls. He blinks up at Arthur slowly before he nods, yawning hugely.

“You do that,” Charles says, but he’s mostly asleep by the time he hits the last word, sprawled naked and lovely in the tent’s interior. 

The night passes gently, the stars twirling overhead, the smoke from the fire hanging in the crisp night air. He tarries when it’s time to wake Charles for his watch, watching the easy rise and fall of his chest, the spill of his hair across the blankets. There’s no reason for Charles to hold such affection for him, near as he can tell. Charles is kind and giving; Arthur is just another brute among hundreds bringing violence and terror into the world. And yet, Charles looks at him so fondly, holds him in the night - it seems impossible that this is something Arthur deserves. 

But he’s taken a lot of things in this life he doesn’t deserve - gold bars, gemstones, horses. Maybe this is just one more thing he can steal before the universe realizes its mistake and strips it away.

“Wake up, darlin’,” Arthur murmurs, running the back of his fingers down Charles cheek. Charles stirs under his hands, smiling as he wakes. It’s so lovely that it almost hurts. They trade places, Arthur slipping into sleep in the blankets made warm by Charles’ body, comforted by his quiet vigil outside. 

*

The road north is quiet so far out from any cities or towns, and for the most part they have the road to themselves. The few folk they meet going south just give them wary nods, eager to be on their way. There’s a man and woman driving a wagon laden with produce down to a market in Annesburg, a woodsman that eyes them suspiciously and spits when they pass him. A few other folk that tentatively return Arthur’s shouted greetings, but no one stops to chat, and they hear no more murmurings about Pinkertons. 

“You always this chatty with strangers?” Charles asks, chiding.

Arthur shrugs. “Ain’t like I like it, but it’s an easy way to get information. You look nicer than me, you should try it. Bat those eyelashes at them and see what news we can get.”

“You like my eyelashes?” Charles asks, fluttering his eyes obnoxiously until Arthur’s bent over in the saddle, laughing. 

Around midmorning, Charles turns them off the main road heading north and takes them up a smaller, less kept path that climbs steadily eastward through the scenery. Eventually, the distant sound of falling water creeps into hearing and grows louder as the path descends back towards the river. 

“Nearly there,” Charles says, when Arthur remarks on it. 

“You been up this way before?”

Charles nods. “There’s a trapper I trade with sometimes, he comes up this way fairly often. I poked around a bit the last time I made it up this way.” He smiles as the river comes into view, the lagoon glassily still in the morning light. “It’s beautiful country.”

He’s not wrong - the forest here has a primeval feel that stirs some faded deja vu from Arthur’s memory. He tries to grasp it, but the feeling darts away from him before he can fully examine it. But the evergreens here are ancient, towering things, with wide heavy branches that dust the land with red-brown needles as long as his hand. Boulders are haplessly strewn through the landscape as if tossed by a gigantic child, and the world is hemmed in by soaring, sheer cliffs. 

It only makes him hate the low, featureless ramble of Lemoyne more, with its yellows and browns, all the greens tinted a sickly shade, like over-boiled broccoli.

They hitch the horses up near the water and unpack their weapons. “It should be up somewhere in this region,” Charles says, hauling his quiver onto this back. He slides a grin over at Arthur. “Lets see how well your tracking skills have come along.”

The ground is spongy around the water, thick with moss and mud, but even so it takes Arthur the better part of an hour and a few hints from Charles before he’s able to pick up the trail. “Here,” he says, crouching over some fresh prints. They’re sunk deep down into the mud at the edge of the water. “Jesus, this thing must be huge.”

Charles nods, creeping along ahead of him. They follow a rabbit trail that skirts around the heavy brush at the lip of the lake, darting back into the heavier foliage off the road. Just a few yards down the path, Charles stops them silently, gesturing to a pile of still-damp manure. “Keep your voice down,” he whispers. “We’re getting close.”

They ease their way through the leaf litter and trees for another hour, working their way along a narrow stream rushing down from the mountains. He’s just starting to think they’ve lost the trail - maybe the beast walked down the shallow stream bed, or maybe they’ve just missed some sign - when Charles stops, gesturing at some broken saplings; beside it, Arthur sees the deep marks from cleft hooves. 

They round a blind curve in the narrow path and Arthur almost gives them away when he sees it, biting back an involuntary noise of amazement. The moose stands snowy white on the far side of the coursing stream, bigger than any horse he’s ever seen. It’s a gangly creature, but there’s some undefinable grace about it, huge and utterly silent, an unmarred splash of white against the riotous autumn colors. 

Surprisingly, it isn’t sporting antlers. He’d expected a bull, but this seems to be a cow, her coat heavy and thick, glistening white, fattened up for the lean winter months ahead. As he watches, she lifts her head and nibbles a young twig, silent and peaceful, her huge, doe eyes blinking slowly. 

It almost seems a shame to end something as lovely as her, but this is a hunting trip, after all. Arthur quietly swings his rifle down off his shoulder and is starting to line up the shot when Charles grips his shoulder urgently. “Wait, Arthur - “ he whispers. It takes a moment for him to realize what has Charles so concerned, but after a moment, he hears it too.

There’s a snap of twigs in the brush beyond the creek, but the cow doesn’t startle. She simply raises her head, waiting. A few moments later, a yearling calf picks its way out of the brush, butting its head fondly against it’s mother’s flank. Arthur lowers the rifle, watching with his heart in his throat. He’d nearly - the calf wouldn’t survive a week without it’s mother, let alone the long winter ahead. 

Beside him, Charles is smiling, watching the animals with something like reverence. The calf ducks its head, suckling for milk, and its mother continues grazing, wholly unconcerned. Arthur puts his rifle away, and lets himself lean into Charles’ body. They watch the pair for long minutes, until the animals quietly move on, disappearing into the deep, protective grasp of the forest.

“God damn,” Arthur says softly. There’s a strange knot in his throat that’s difficult to swallow around. Charles makes a noise of agreement. He rolls to his feet and offers Arthur a hand up.

“Come on,” Charles says, his voice lovely and quiet and fond. “Let's get back to the road.”

*

Arthur expects to make camp once they find their way back to the horses, but Charles shakes his head. 

“I met a woman up here the last time I came through,” Charles explains as they mount up. “She and her husband moved out from the city, but the poor man fell to a bear their first spring here. She was almost starving when I ran across her - didn’t know the first thing about living off the land.” 

“Guessing you saved her, then?” Arthur says, though he knows the answer. 

Charles shrugs. “I just showed her a few things. Got word from her a few months ago - her father passed and she was heading back to the city to see to the estate. She won’t be able to make it back up to the cottage until spring, once winter sets in. She asked me to check in on it, if I was in the area.”

“And people say I got a soft heart for strangers,” Arthur says, chuckling. 

Charles smiles at him, urging Taima into a trot. “You do. Isn’t weakness to do the right thing, you know that.”

The little cabin is only another hour down the road, but by the time they approach it, night has set in. This wild country is beautiful, but Arthur knows too well the kind of predators that slip out at night. He thinks of the moose and her calf, and hopes they’re safe and warm in some secret alcove of the forest. Silly to worry, but there are so few things that lovely in the world. He ain’t the praying type, but he hopes deeply that they’ll see their way through to spring.

The cottage is shut up tight for winter, but Charles casts around for a few moments in the garden until he finds a key hidden in the dirt by some empty trellises. 

“Trusting woman,” Arthur remarks as they enter the house. It’s like something out of a dream, well made and cozy, pleasantly cluttered with the little mementos that life accumulates. Arthur’s never had enough time to amass more than a few photographs, but this cabin speaks to a life well and richly lived. 

“We’ve hardly seen anyone since morning,” Charles says. “I don’t think Charlotte gets many visitors up here.”

“True enough. She must be a tough woman, eking it out alone up here.”

Charles smiles, crouching down to set a fire in the fireplace. “She’s a quick learner and stubborn to boot. Can’t say I’m disappointed she’s wintering in the city, though. It’s hard enough making it by in good weather, this far out from the world.”

It’s an oddly domestic evening. They eat the last of the venison jerky they’d brought with them and some hard cheese, passing a tin of strawberries back and forth until they’d licked the last of the syrup from their fingers. Arthur digs out a half-empty bottle of bourbon from his bags and they sag against one another on the couch, drinking from the bottle until Arthur is feeling loose limbed and deeply content. 

They end up necking in the crackling warmth of the fire, passing time like kids, sliding hands and lips over one another, Arthur braced over Charles’ lap until he’s just starting to feel desperate and flushed. Charles has managed to untuck Arthur’s shirt from his trousers and opened it down his chest, his broad hands skirting up Arthur’s sides in light, senseless patterns.

“Charles,” he murmurs, his voice rough. In the soft, flickering light of the fire, Charles is beautiful, his mouth open and wet, his pupils wide, hair loose and tumbling down his shoulders, disordered from Arthur’s fingers. Arthur can see the pulse point in Charles’ neck, beating jack-rabbit quick, and feels the uneven puffs of his breath on the shell of his ear.

“We should go to the bedroom,” Charles says, his voice deep in his chest. He leans forward, pressing a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the column of Arthur’s neck, sucking at the skin until Arthur squirms. 

“Okay,” Arthur says, only stumbling a little when he stands. When they’d arrived, Charles had deposited their bags in a modest guest bedroom, a small room made even more cramped by the large, heavy-framed double bed at its center. Even so, Arthur’s throat had gone dry just seeing it - they so rarely had the chance to lie together in a real bed, aside from those few, chanced times they’d booked a room at an inn, always worried that someone would hear them, would guess what they were up to behind locked doors. 

Arthur’s hands only shake a little as he lights the oil lamp on the bedside table. Charles is crouched by their bags, fishing something out of a deep pocket. 

“What?” Charles says when he turns, a familiar bottle of oil held in one hand. 

“Just love lookin’ at you,” Arthur says, made honest by the whiskey and the heat in his blood. Charles’ expression goes soft and he strides over, pushing both hands up into Arthur’s hair, holding him to a deep, electric kiss that nearly makes Arthur feel like he’s drowning, leaving him gasping, fingers knotted around Charles' belt loops. 

The heat from the fire has drifted through the cabin, but that doesn’t go so far as to explain the sweat on their skin as they get out of their clothes, fumbling and inelegant, laughing at one another as they kick the last of their clothes away. Nude, Charles backs Arthur up to the bed, pressed against him from their knees to their chests, cocks sliding against each other in the private heat between their bodies. 

“I was thinking I could take you,” Charles says, running his hands down Arthur’s sides until Arthur shivers. It’s stunning, how plainly he speaks, the way he doggedly holds Arthur’s gaze. So much braver than Arthur, so much better all around. 

“Yeah,” Arthur says hoarsely. Charles has used his fingers on him more than once since that night Sean had come upon them, and it only got better and easier each time. But Charles has so far ignored Arthur’s pestering to just be done with it, to slide into him in whatever camp they’d made. For the first time, Arthur wonders if Charles has planned this, stealing him away to a quiet house with a soft bed, a hundred miles from responsibility and duty. 

“Don’t have to,” Charles says, lowering his mouth to suck at the skin above the scar on his shoulder, digging his fingers into the flesh of Arthur’s ass. 

“I disagree,” Arthur says, swallowing tightly. He already feels frantic, rubbing himself shamelessly against Charles sturdy frame, a soft noise working out of him each time their cocks rub against one another. 

Charles laughs, sounding unsteady himself, and presses a soft, oddly chaste kiss against Arthur’s bottom lip. “Okay. Lay down on the bed.”

Arthur sits back on the edge of the bed, letting Charles slide between his knees, his fingers anxiously knotted in the dusty bed linens. His heart is pounding in his chest and he’s hard enough to pound nails, already leaking from the tip. Charles leans down to kiss him, one hand cupping his jaw. With the height of the bed, they’re just about eye level with one another - Charles could stand there and thrust into him easily, with Arthur’s hips pulled flush to the edge of the mattress. Which, Arthur realizes, as Charles presses him flat on the covers, is just what he intends to do. 

Charles slicks his hand and plays with Arthur’s cock for a few minutes, letting him thrust into the perfectly slick, tight circle of his fist, until the sounds Arthur makes gets sharper.

“You enjoyin’ torturing me?” Arthur says, when he draws away. Charles reaches for a cord he’d thrown on the bed earlier, and Arthur watches as he uses it to calmly tie back his hair. He’s so lovely, Arthur thinks, sprawled out naked beneath Charles, watching the lamplight slide over him as he knots the cord. Charles bends down over Arthur’s prone form, smudging a kiss against the corner of his mouth, his cock resting alongside Arthur’s, pressed against his stomach.

“Yes, actually,” he says, a smile in his voice. 

“Bastard,” Arthur says fondly, and closes his eyes as Charles slicks his fingers, gently pressing inside him. They’ve done this enough now that it doesn’t even feel strange, it just lights an anticipatory fire in his gut as Charles thrusts into him. Before long, Arthur is arching back off the blankets, making a low, strained noise as Charles spreads the three fingers inside him, twisting his hand as he thrusts back in. 

“God, Arthur - you look -” Arthur opens his eyes to watch Charles’ Adam’s apple bob up and down. His face is so open, unshuttered, looking at Arthur with something far too close to wonder for Arthur’s comfort. He knows he’s banged up, scarred, undeserving of the open desire on Charles’ face, and seeing all that tenderness directed at him makes him feel like he’s gotten away with something. But no bank heist or train robbery has ever made him feel this wild, as if he’s ten seconds from shaking apart.

Arthur leans up, pulling Charles down to kiss him deeply, crying out into his mouth when he feels Charles reposition slightly, dipping his pinky finger into him as well, sloppily slick and so full he feels fit to bursting. 

“Come on,” he says, rolling his hips down against his hand. “Please, Charles, I’m gonna shoot if you keep on like this.”

Charles laughs shakily, tipping their foreheads together. “Yeah,” he says, swallowing audibly. He closes his eyes and breathes out slowly. “Yeah, okay.”

He pulls away and Arthur watches with his heart in his throat as Charles slicks his cock, straining up against his stomach. Charles hisses through his teeth as he does it, looking marvelously unsteady, muscles locked up like a horse about to bolt. Stepping between Arthur’s splayed legs, he tugs him down the bed until his ass is resting just on the lip of the bed. 

“Here,” he murmurs, guiding Arthur’s legs around him. Arthur instinctively links his ankles together in the small of Charles’ back, using the leverage to pull him in closer. Arthur’s eyes have drifted shut on a sea of nervous anticipation, but he opens them when he feels Charles’ cock slide against his hole, and watches Charles wracked face as he presses - slowly, gently - inside.

It hurts a bit, but not so much as he’d feared. They both make a noise as the head slips past the slick, loosened ring of muscle, Arthur’s legs tightening reflexively around Charles hips.

“Fuck,” Arthur says, his lips parted as he greedily sucks in air. Charles stills, hanging just inside him, trailing his fingers gently up Arthur’s chest, using his short finger nails to flick sharply at his nipples. 

“You okay?” Charles says, his voice sounds ruined, an octave deeper than it had been moments ago. Arthur blinks slowly, hand drifting down to anchor securely around his cock. 

“Yeah,” he breathes out, and then smiles, noticing the tension sitting in all of Charles’ limbs. “Are you?”

Charles laughs, his teeth a brilliant flash of white in the half-light of the bedroom. He rocks his hips marginally, letting a small, desperate moan escape as he inches farther in. “Yeah. It’s just - been a while.”

There’s some ugly jealous deep in Arthur’s chest that’s satisfied at that, but he doesn’t have long to dwell on it. Charles ducks down to kiss him again, deep and possessive, as he starts to grind into him. Arthur isn’t too proud to gasp, and he slides his hands up onto Charles’ shoulders, fingers biting into his skin. It hurts a bit, of course - he’d known it would - but that seems so inconsequential against the rest of it, the careful, stretching pressure of Charles inside him, stiff and sliding sweetly deeper. Charles rearranges him gently, pushing one of Arthur’s knees up and out, and when he pushes back in afterward, Arthur makes a noise that’s more shout than groan, frantically surprised.

Charles kisses him desperately and continues to rock in at that perfect angle, the pressure and the sure, steady strokes against that spot inside him enough to make Arthur forget himself entirely, arching his back to meeting the glide of Charles’ hips, his breath ragged with broken sounds and half-formed words.

And then, Charles is fully inside him, his chest shiny with sweat, the smooth lines of his hips pressed against the back of Arthur’s thighs. Arthur’s eyes are suspiciously damp, but Charles doesn’t raise it, doesn’t stop. The first time he draws back and thrusts fully inside him, they both groan, Arthur’s hands grabbing at Charles, wanting to pull him impossibly closer. 

“Jesus, Charles,” Arthur gasps, twisting like a fish beneath him. Charles laughs, almost giddy as he rolls his hips forward in a long, perfect stroke. By now they’re both slippery with sweat and Charles hooks Arthur’s knees over his elbows, dragging Arthur back to meet him as he snaps his hips forward. 

“God,” Arthur says drunkenly, snaking a hand down between them to wrap around his cock, gripping tight around the base. Charles moves fluidly over him, perfect and handsome, his lips parted as he drags in short, desperate breaths; he stares down at Arthur raptly, bending down to kiss him, thrusting hard enough that it rolls through both of them, moving Arthur backward up the bed.

“Sorry,” he gasps, dropping careful, damp kisses onto Arthur’s neck. “Sorry, I’ll -”

“You’ll keep doing just that,” Arthur says, jerking his hips up into Charles arms, wrenching a noise out of Charles as they slide together, deep and perfect and jarring. Arthur can’t help the wretched whine that slips out of him as Charles finally stops being so careful, snapping his hips forward in perfect, gliding thrusts that makes him feel just shy of overwhelmed. He’s so open and fantastically sore, pleasure throbbing through him each time Charles slides fully in. With the hand not locked around his cock, he yanks Charles down to him, so worked up he can’t even kiss him properly, just a messy rub of their mouths together. 

Charles moves in him for long minutes, murmuring praise and curses as their bodies figure out how to come together. In this position, Arthur doesn’t have to do much but let Charles arrange him, twisting their hips together in a rolling, shuddering pace that makes both their chests heave. Charles’ hair is stuck to his forehead in sweaty streaks, and the expression on his face when he looks down at Arthur is indescribable, shell-shocked and gorgeous and cracked open to something so pure and bright Arthur hesitates to name it. But for the moment, high on the slick press of their bodies together, the loving, rumbling words falling from Charles’ lips, Arthur looks back up at him, reflecting the same, uncontainable emotion that lights Charles’ eyes from within.

“‘M gonna, I can’t -” he gasps out, but Charles seems to understand and he reaches between them, knocking Arthur’s hand out of the way. His fingers are still slippery with the oil he’d slicked himself with earlier, and Arthur makes a gutted noise when his fist closes around him, Charles’ broad, rough hand whipping up and down his cock in perfect counterpoint to the bruising rhythm of his hips. Arthur digs his fingers into Charles shoulders, arching his back, and isn’t even surprised when he spills, his whole body locking tight up, clamping down on Charles’ cock, still moving perfectly within him, and shooting hard enough that he can feel it hit his chest, the bottom of his chin.

Charles keeps moving through it, twisting his hand sloppily up and down Arthur’s shaft until Arthur jackknifes beneath him, his voice hoarse and shaky. Slowly, Charles eases to a stop, his chest still heaving. 

“What are you doin’,” Arthur slurs, and then curses when Charles gently pulls out. “Ah, fuck, what’s the big idea -”

But Charles just hushes him, gently urging him back further onto the bed so that Charles has enough room to crawl up over him. A moment later, now kneeling on the mattress, he slides back into Arthur, sweet and easy. Charles is shaking a little bit as he drives his hips forward, the only sound in the room the rushing of blood in Arthur’s ear, the noise as their their bodies come together, and the rising pitch of Charles voice, desperate and naked.

Charles must lose himself to what they’re doing because the last few strokes are sharp enough to inch them across the bed linens, but it’s a perfect, beautiful ache that makes Arthur moan. Arthur has time enough to marvel that this position almost makes everything feel wetter - it feels as though Charles is moving smoother and easier as he speeds up, buried impossibly deep within him, but in the next breath he realizes it's not the change in position at all - it's Charles spilling inside him, slicking the way for him to get that much deeper, dragging long, torturous thrusts across the spot inside that makes his cock twitch, even spent as he is. Arthur shudders all over, gathering Charles close against him, tipping Charles’ face up to kiss him as he finally stills, breath punching out of him in deep, gasping breaths.

“Are you -” Charles says, dropping a mindless kiss against Arthur’s sternum. He’s still jerking in Arthur’s arms, little motions that spark lingering echoes of want through him.

“‘M fine,” Arthur says, before Charles can press it. His heart feels full enough to choke on and he fears that if he says anymore his voice will crack, betray him. “More’n fine. Good lord, Charles.”

They disengage slowly, and Charles gently leads him out of bed, making him wash up before he lets Arthur fold himself beneath the covers. Arthur is deeply, wonderfully exhausted, and the ache in his body is one of well-used exertion, like he’d spent hours trying to swim upstream. A moment later, Charles rolls into bed behind him, pulling Arthur against his chest, his mouth open and tender on the back of his neck. Arthur captures one of Charles hand in his own, sliding their fingers together, gripping him tightly until he slides quickly, deeply into sleep. 

*  
_At the water’s edge, the stag watches him, a golden smear against the rich black and silver of the night. Between them, a creek gushes silently, coursing down from some unknown mountain spring. Arthur sits frozen in the reeds, some desperate warning held captive in his throat, pressing against his paralyzed vocal cords. He has no notion of what he needs to say, only that the warning is important, dire, but there’s no winning against the heavy silence that lays over the woods. He struggles mutely, desperately afraid - not for himself, but for the stag, blessedly unaware of the wretched things lurking in the shadows draped across the world._

_The night is deep and unforgiving, save for the dappled moonlight swaying across the forest. The safety of this glen is fleeting - Arthur knows this with the strange certainty of dreams. Their time here is drawing to an end, and the shadows reach ever-closer as they close around this sanctuary, welling up like blood on snow._

_In the distance, hungry and enraged, Arthur hears the baying of a wolf._

*

When the light is still grey and sluggish, Arthur wakes, sore and warm and hard in Charles’ arms. He means to go back to sleep, truly he does, but his shifting around seems to have roused Charles, who drags a hand down the wiry hair on Arthur’s chest and stomach, rumbling a wordless “good morning” sort of noise into the shell of his ear. It’s an innocent gesture, or as innocent as it can be when they’re wrapped up together, bare beneath the sheets, but Arthur can’t help turning beneath the comforting weight of Charles’ arm, pressing a bitter morning kiss against his lips. Just a peck good morning, he thinks, even as he deepens the kiss, sliding his hands up into Charles’ hair. Charles wakes the rest of the way up gently, dragging warm hands down Arthur’s back, making a soft, inquisitive noise into his mouth. Just one stolen moment before they drift back to sleep. 

And yet, ten minutes later, Arthur has worked his way astride Charles’ hips and is watching through half-lidded eyes as Charles’ mouth parts in pleasure, the muscles in his stomach clenching as he thrusts up into Arthur with care. It’s even easier than it was last night, Arthur thinks, rocking his hips down, anchored by Charles’ hands curving gently around his hips. He’d still been slick and loose from the night before, and Charles fingers had been followed quickly by his cock, simple as anything. Settling into the rhythm, Arthur grabs for the headboard, using the leverage to grind his hips down until they’re pressed together fully, moving in a sinuous, lazy pace, the only sound in the room their heavy breaths and the muffled protests from the bedframe. Arthur has always liked when Charles does this for him, settling in his lap so Arthur can look up at the breadth of him, see the soft spill of his hair, the way his eyes drift shut when he’s close, how easy it is to wrap his hand around his cock while Arthur thrusts into him, just as Charles is doing for him now. 

It’s golden and sweet and they don’t last long, but denying themselves when the day is still half-formed and dreamlike don’t make much sense, or at least that’s what Arthur tells himself a little while later, still laying spread on the bed while Charles tugs on his pants, looking down at Arthur with bare satisfaction. 

“I’ll make the coffee,” Charles says, brushing a kiss against his mouth. “Don’t fall back asleep. We gotta get on the road.”

That little slice of reality is enough to break the spell, but Arthur tucks the memory of this moment away for himself, to be cherished and remembered even once Charles has moved on.

Arthur packs up reluctantly, vaguely anxious with thoughts of the world that waits down south. This brief break in the storm has only reminded him how heavy and constant the deluge at camp is - the errands that need running, the closing threat of Milton and his cronies, the distorted madness that’s become so clear in Dutch’s eyes. Micah, who ain’t dying near quick enough for Arthur’s comfort. For a moment he allows himself the fantasy that with Micah six feet under, the world will become simple and free again, and Dutch will wake from this violent stupor.

Foolishness, more than likely. But the only path before him leads straight back to Dutch, and it’s a peace he’s made with himself. But you couldn’t blame a man for day dreaming up miracles when the road ahead was so dark and hostile.

Arthur sits on the front stoop of the cottage as Charles locks up, sucking down coffee and shifting around to make himself comfortable. It’s no easy feat.

“Alright there?” Charles asks after he’s tucked the key back in its hiding place. He folds himself down beside Arthur, lighting a cigarette with a match struck on his boots. He seems oddly tense this morning, looking more and more weighed down as they finished their preparations. Knowing the world they have to ride back to, Arthur can understand the fretting. Their current purgatory in Lemoyne is especially cruel for Charles, who faces down a dozen quiet indignities each time he leaves camp. Still, Arthur’s not sure that goes all the way to explaining how rigid Charles has become over the course of the morning. 

“Uh-huh,” Arthur says, still squirming around. “I don’t know how you and the girls do this all the time, riding’s gonna be hell.”

Charles chokes on the smoke, a laugh startled out of him so loud that it scares off the birds perched on the roof. 

“It’s true!” Arthur says, grinning. He plucks the cigarette out of Charles’ hands, taking a drag before passing it back. “You make it look easy.”

“You did just fine,” Charles says, still laughing helplessly. He presses a dry, easy kiss against Arthur’s cheek; Arthur can feel the brush of his eyelashes on his cheekbone, fluttering and soft. 

Well, Arthur thinks as they go to saddle up, whatever else comes he’ll still have this crisp morning to hold onto, a handful of pilfered moments strung together into a dream.

*

The ride back down to the main road takes most of the morning, and when they reach the intersection with the Post Road, Charles calls for an early lunch before they turn south. He’s become quieter and quieter as they’ve descended back westward, not the easy silence they so often share, but something closed off, isolated. So far, Arthur has left him to it, unwilling to pester him, but he’s made a deal with himself to raise it by end of day. God knows that for all the kindness Charles has shown him, the least Arthur can do is to listen. He don’t have much in the way of wisdom to part with, but sometimes just talking out loud can wash the ache out of wounds. 

The meal is quick and simple and it does Arthur wonders to stretch his legs. They hobble the horses and eat seated on a felled tree, looking over a deep, forested valley, flaming with the colors of fall. Charles eats meagerly, only washing down the last of his meal when Arthur prods at him, growing increasingly concerned. 

“Well,” Arthur says, packing up their things when they’ve finished, absently brushing Roisin down, “Suppose we’ll be back down to Rhodes in a few nights. Might make the return a bit quicker - mostly we’ll be going downhill.”

When Charles doesn’t respond, Arthur turns to find him still seated on the log, looking out at the valley stonily. 

“Charles?”

“Hm?” Charles says, not looking up. There’s an awful tautness to his shoulders, so different to just a few hours ago when he’d been boneless and gasping beneath Arthur, his fingers leaving dappled bruises on his hips. 

“I said, we’ll be back down to camp soon,” Arthur repeats, walking back to him. “Hey, are you alright? You been off all morning.”

Charles takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, gathering himself like a man bracing for an amputation. When he looks up at Arthur, he’s resolved, but something fearful still lurks in his expression.

“Arthur....” he says, so softly that Arthur can still hear the wind in the trees, the thudding of his own heart in his throat. “We’re not going back to camp.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it only took 45k to write the scene I started this fic for. New record! 
> 
> Many thanks to [arthur-dirtydick-morgan](https://arthur-dirtydick-morgan.tumblr.com/) for looking this over for me! 
> 
> Find me over at [allthingsmustfall](https://allthingsmustfall.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Comments and kudos are love ❤️


	9. Chapter 9

It’s quiet in the clearing, just the rustle of the wind through the leaves and the soft whickering of the horses. Arthur stands stock still, his thumbs still looped through his belt loops. There’s some expression frozen on his face, but he couldn’t name it if he tried. Charles, still seated on the log, looks up at him steadily, drawing careful breaths.

Eventually, Arthur laughs. It’s rough and forced and feels awful in his mouth. “C’mon now,” he says. “We ain’t got time for joking. Dutch is expecting us back down by Friday, and -”

Charles shakes his head sharply, and he rolls to his feet.

“I’m not joking.”

Arthur stares at him, his throat working. When he speaks again, all humor has gone out of him, and his voice comes out flat, deadened. “What the hell are you talkin’ about, Charles.”

“We’re not going back down to camp,” Charles says, stiffly. He looks away, down at the valley, and draws a slow breath before he looks back at Arthur. “We’re getting out.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Arthur says sharply. All that numbness is melting under some wrath that’s shuddering through his ribcage, dangerous and - afraid. His hands are shaking, bunched into fists at his side.

Charles turns away, dashing his hand back through his hair. “Please, Arthur - listen to me -”

“I’ll listen when you start talking some god damned sense,” Arthur says, his voice rising in volume. “What do you mean we’re _getting out_? What kind of fool nonsense has got into your head? Where the hell you fixing to go?”

Charles turns back to him, tension strung awful and tight through his shoulders. “Canada.”

“ _Canada_? That’s a hundred miles in the wrong God damned direction!” He’s furious and his head ain’t working right - it feels like he’s drunk a gallon of whiskey on an empty stomach, the world lurching and jerking around beneath his feet. “What the fuck are you doing?” Arthur says, feeling treacherous dampness at his eyes. There’s something pulling together, deep in the recesses of his mind, but he doesn’t want to see it. He can’t. He shoves it away, but it’s running together in the base of his brain, sticking together like quicksilver until a murky form takes shape.

“Listen to me, Arthur.” Charles voice is softer now, cracked with emotion. “Please.”

“What the _fuck_ are you doing?” Arthur says, louder. He can feel his lunch pressing back up into his throat, wracked with bile.

Charles takes a deep breath, anger flashing in his eyes. “I’m getting you out of this fucking hell Dutch has got dreamed up.” He swallows hard, closing his eyes when Arthur spins away from him, frantically pacing back and forth.

“Start talkin’,” Arthur says, low and angry. “Tell me just what the _fuck_ you been whispering about all these weeks, Charles! Tell me about all those fucking lies I ain’t ever pressed you about.” Charles looks away, some deadened guilt flicking over his features. “Answer me!” Arthur shouts.

“There wasn’t any mansion in Ambarino,” Charles says, and it’s so jarring that it makes Arthur pause. _Ambarino_? What on earth is he even talking about? It takes a moment for him to even remember.

“The girls,” Arthur says, feeling light headed.

Charles jerks a nod. “Sadie and Karen. They went down into Blackwater-”

“Blackwater?” Arthur shouts, spinning back to him. “That’s a goddamn death sentence-”

“They did just fine,” Charles says loudly, giving Arthur a stony stare. “They did fine. Perfect, even.”

“What the hell were they doin’ in -” And then it clicks and Arthur stills, blinking numbly out at the forest. “The stash.”

Charles jerks his head in a nod. “The stash.” He takes a deep breath. “They got it just fine. Nobody was looking for two women just poking aro-”

Arthur pushes his hands back through his hair, shaking his head in denial. “They coulda been killed! Whose idea was this nonsense?”

Charles stares at him, chin lifted defiantly. “Mine.”

Arthur feels like he’s been struck, staggering backwards a few steps. “You did this? You planned all this - sending those girls off to their deaths for - for what? To make a fool outta me?”

“They aren’t exactly children, Arthur,” Charles says tightly, advancing on him before he stops himself, hands clenched into fists at his sides. “And they weren’t exactly hard to convince, either. None of them were.”

“None of -” Arthur laughs cruelly, shaking his head. “What the fuck did you do?”

“Saved your God damned life, you fool!” Charles shouts, something snapping in his expression. He looks angry now, mixed in with the worry that’s been soaking him since morning.

“You’re a liar,” Arthur spits back at him. “I thought you was _loyal_. Guess you ain’t the man I thought you was, huh? What is this nonsense - running away, _leaving_? That’s - cowardly.”

Charles laughs shortly. “Yeah that’s right, Arthur. I’m a God damned coward, aren’t I?”

“Where the fuck are they now?” Arthur says, because he hates himself for what he’s just said, but his anger ain’t abating. He feels like he’s gonna shake apart.

“They’re already north,” Charles says, his throat working. “They crossed into Canada weeks ago.”

“Fucking _Canada_?” Arthur laughs derisively. Up at the trail, a trapper is ambling along on horseback, watching them curiously. “Move along, friend!” Arthur snaps hotly, his hand hovering over his pistol. “This ain’t none of your concern.”

The man makes a rude gesture and kicks his horse into a trot, disappearing quickly southward down the trail.

“And what are the ladies doing in _Canada_ with the gang’s God damned money, Charles?” Arthur says in a low voice, once the jingle of the man’s tack has faded.

Charles stalks away from him, opening Taima’s saddlebags. He pulls out a familiar envelope and throws it at Arthur. It’s the same letter Sean had dropped off to him weeks ago, a bit worn from handling and stuffed full of papers. Arthur just stares at it.

“Open it,” Charles snaps. After a second, Arthur does, pulling out a thick sheaf of papers.

“The hell is this?” he mutters, flipping through the official looking paper work, until he finds a small square of paper. It’s a carbon copy, faded, but the scroll work on the header is official-looking and stately. Arthur takes a deep breath, blinking at it dumbly. “This is a deed.”

Charles nods, shortly. The next paper is a map - it’s nowhere Arthur recognizes, but he sees a city name down at the southern border of the map, Montreal, and there’s red ink marking out a bit of territory far north.

“John and Abigail and Jack took the train up out of St Denis to help them pick it out a few weeks back.” Charles snorts humorlessly. “They didn’t tell Jack or Uncle until they were already booked on the train.”

“This is more’n 500 acres,” Arthur says dumbly. Charles just nods. Arthur swallows hard, looking at the map. There was forest on the property, a river. Some old farmhouse and half-a-dozen smaller cabins for the farm hands.

He looks up at Charles, his mouth twisting. “Kieran wasn’t going for shires, was he?”

Charles shakes his head. “They took the train up out of Emerald Ranch, him and Lenny and Mary-Beth -”

“God _dammit_.” Arthur spins on his heel, dropping the paperwork down to the ground. He lashes out blindly, punching a fist into a nearby oak. The pain is almost a relief to the awful, turbid fury still beating through him.

Charles watches him silently, arms crossed over his chest.

“And the rest?” Arthur says quietly. When Charles doesn’t answer, Arthur turns back to him. “And the rest?” he says louder, blinking tears out of his eyes. “You just leaving them all -”

“They left two nights after we did!” Charles says angrily. “Tilly and Sean and Javier and Hosea. They took the train out of St. Denis. Hell, they’ll probably beat us there.” He takes a deep breath, looking away. “Hosea was so worried that Javier wouldn’t come…”

“And what about everyone else?” Arthur says belligerently, staring at Charles, who just looks back at him, shocked.

“Everyone else?” Charles says, laughing. “Who else did you want me to bring, Arthur? Bill? Swanson? Grimshaw would’ve shot me dead if I asked her. Are you real cut up about leaving _Micah_ behind?” Charles shakes his head sharply. “No. We got out the people that needed getting out.”

“Hosea help you with this?” Arthur says tightly. It makes him feel an utter fool - they’d been playing him for weeks now, Charles and Hosea both. God dammit, Hosea, he thinks frantically. Hosea of all people should have known better - even _he’d_ been fixing to turn tail and run? Arthur’s gut feels weak and queasy. Part of him wants to sit down, but he ain’t through hollering yet.

“I planned it,” Charles says, unflinching. “But after what Dutch did to you with the O’Driscolls, Hosea wasn’t all that hard to convince, either.”

“Did to me? He didn’t do jack shit to me, it was Colm who -”

“I _begged_ Dutch to go looking for you,” Charles said, stalking over to him. “I _begged_ him, Arthur. He laughed at me. He told me you were just fine, just out there running errands. He wasn’t even worried.” He takes a deep breath, staring at Arthur hard. “He didn’t care -”

“You shut your mouth,” Arthur says, even though he had already known that. He’d locked up that bit of wisdom somewhere deep in his chest, cloaked in the dark and left well alone. It wasn’t information that did him any good, and dwelling on it wasn’t gonna make his shoulder heal any faster, wasn’t going to bleed the nightmares out of his mind.

“You know it’s true,” Charles says, something pleading in his voice. Arthur shoves away from him, swallowing down tears and bile.

“Lord, you all must’ve been _laughing_ at me,” Arthur says, almost entirely to himself. “Bet you all had a good time, pulling the wool over my eyes. Didn’t you? You must’ve -”

“You wouldn’t have come!”

“You're damn right I wouldn’t’ve!” Arthur yells. His chest is heaving with desperate breaths, his throat tight and aching. “What do you want me to do, Charles? I wouldn’t’ve stopped any of you leaving, you know that! What was your God damned plan? Make me run away? Make me leave Dutch? He needs me.”

“He doesn’t deserve you,” Charles hisses, stalking closer to him. “He would have let you die in the first ditch you dropped in and you _know_ it. That’s the worst part of it,” Charles says, loudly. “You would have let that bastard kill you by inches for as long as it took, until there wasn’t anything left. There’s some days I think you’re convinced it’s what you deserve.”

“It _is_ what I God damned deserve!” Arthur shouts, shocked at how true it feels in his mouth. “I ain’t a good man, no matter what you let yourself think! I killed more people than I can even put a number to and you think I ought to get out of that life? It’s the only thing I can do, Charles. You’re a damn fool if you think otherwise.”

Charles grabs him by the collar, slamming him up against a tree. “I will make you believe you’re worth the air you breathe if it’s the last thing I do, Arthur Morgan,” he says, staring deep into Arthur’s eyes. “I’ve seen you put your life on the line for strangers, I’ve seen you do the right thing even when it cost you. All that - that’s not something Dutch ever taught you. You kept that growing in the dark. God knows it wasn’t nurtured.” He releases Arthur, pacing away from him.

Arthur leans against the tree, his chest heaving. “Why are you doin’ this to me?” he asks, his voice wrecked.

“Doing this to you?” Charles says, laughing wetly. There’s tears caught in his eyelashes, clumping them together. “You think that’s what you deserve? Dying for some mad man’s dream? Is it what Molly deserves? Abigail? Should I send word up to John, tell him to go back to Dutch, keep chasing his dream into a noose?” The thought makes something spasm in Arthur’s chest - John’s a Goddamn idiot, make no mistake, but if he’s out, he should stay out, keep his family safe -

“What about Mary-Beth?” Charles continues on, relentless. “Should I send her back to Dutch, let him breathe down her neck some more?” He goes quiet for a moment, and then adds, “What about little Jack? Should we send him back down to Dutch? Let him _raise him up_ the same way he raised you -”

“I deserved a choice!” Arthur shouts, feeling so God damned overwhelmed that his voice cracks, the lump in his throat aching like fire.

“You would have chosen wrong!” Charles says, his eyes hard. “Dutch spent his whole life making you think you were the bastard you see in the shadows, no more good to him than a bullet or a blade. He would’ve killed you, one way or another. That man who raised you died before he butchered that poor girl in Blackwater. I won’t let you go on living for a ghost.” Charles so rarely shouted, Arthur thinks. This is probably grating his throat. “And I sure as hell wasn’t going to wait around to watch you die for one. Don’t ask me to do that. There isn’t much in this world I wouldn’t do for you, but not that.” There’s a heavy creak in his voice. “Please Arthur, please don’t make me do that."

Arthur's hands are shaking as he drags a palm down his face, trying to find some solid ground, anything sturdy enough to cling to. He keeps thinking of Dutch, wading deeper into madness, Micah dragging him down like stones in his pockets. Alone now, or near enough as it doesn't matter. "God dammit," he whispers, voice thin and shaking. Just hours ago they'd been in bed together, gasping and laughing, and he wants that back more than he wants air in his lungs, even as his heart shudders in his chest, aching and torn.

“I won't force you,” Charles says when they’ve been quiet for long moments, their awful, straining breaths the only noise in the clearing. The horses are eyeing them curiously, unnerved by all the noise. “Hell, if you can’t - if being angry at me is stopping you coming, then I won’t stay.” Charles is gathering himself steadily, wiping tears out of his eyes. Arthur knows that every word is saying is true. “I’ll leave once I get you there.” Charles drags in an aching, unsteady breath before he continues softly. “I know you hate me right now, Arthur, but please...You _deserve_ to get out, as much as me or John or Jack or any of them.”

Arthur feels wholly lost, desperately unsteady, wrecked with anger and betrayal and guilt. There’s a pain in his chest that makes every breath hurt. He wants to scream, to run to Roisin and kick her into a gallop, ride hell bent for leather back down to Rhodes, to walk into camp and find all of this an awful, waking dream. He wants to wake up beside Charles in the morning and find themselves back out West, with the Pinkerton’s a distant nightmare, to slide against him beneath the sheets, happy in the sanctuary they’ve created between each other, private and safe. He wants more than anything a moment out of memory, when the gang was sturdy and safe and Dutch still cared for them. He wants a thousand impossible things, all of them so far outside his reach that they may as well be the moon.

There had never been a reason to hope before. Not with the death around them, not with Dutch so distant and determined. It was something Arthur had forced himself to accept, choking it down with every other cruelty life threw into his path. He never figured on anyone else trying to drag those dreams back out of the dark, to breathe new life into them. He never thought it would make him feel so angry, flayed down and aching into the bone.

And yet beneath all that scorching fury, there’s something of a quiet relief. It’s so faint he can barely even see it enough to call it by name. Some part of him, small and screaming angrily at himself, knows that taking this decision away from him was a gift. The same way amputating a rotten limb was, or giving too much morphine to a man lingering in pain. It wasn’t kindness. But it wasn’t cruelty, either.

Finally, Charles swallows, looking away. When he speaks, his voice is low and rough, like he’s dredging up words he’s stored away and forgotten about.

“I haven’t held onto much in this life. Haven’t let myself want it -” Charles stops for a moment, steadying himself. “Let myself _love_ it enough to fight to keep it with me. If I can’t keep you - then I -” His voice creaks and his eyes are shiny when he looks back to Arthur. “Then I accept that. But please Arthur, just let me get you safe. If you ever - cared for me, then please. Let me have that much.”

*

It's a long, quiet week north.

They pass out of New Hanover and into Pennsylvania, following the Post Road like the North Star. They hardly speak and at night they split their watches, climbing in and out of the tent without brushing their bodies. The absence hurts almost as much as the hole in Arthur’s chest, and he’s strung taut between anger and helplessness and a hungry ache for comfort.

“Don’t leave,” Charles says that first night on the road north, after Arthur says he’ll take first watch. They’ve been silent all day, Arthur growing heavier and heavier with each mile they put behind them. “When I’m asleep - don’t leave, Arthur. Please.” He takes a deep breath through his nose. “Or just - don’t leave without saying goodbye.”

It hadn’t occurred to Arthur to do so, but as good an idea as it is, it sits queasily in his stomach.

“I won’t,” Arthur says softly. The ache in his throat is near constant, now. His mind has been blank for hours and he’s fought to keep it that way. Each time he lets his thoughts drift, they inexorably return to Dutch, to Arthur’s own weaknesses, the cowardly relief he can feel seeping around the edges of his thoughts.

Eventually, they cross the New York state line, and if the hills and forests of New Hanover had impressed him, the riotous colors of the late New York fall are some kind of dream. The air is rich and clean, tinged with woodsmoke and the sweet smell of maple trees. There’s no enjoying it, though. It’s long past when they were due back to camp. Arthur thinks about Dutch waking to find Sean, Tilly, Javier, and _Hosea_ gone in the night - Arthur can imagine the rage, but his memory ruthlessly provides him snapshots of Dutch as he had been ten years ago - full of righteous brimstone and grand ideas, a sharp glint in his eye, his utter devotion to Arthur and the gang. In his mind, it’s _that_ man who roused to find himself deserted, heart broken and betrayed. Arthur wonders if Dutch had held out hope that Arthur would return to him, if he waited all day at the hitching post to see if just one member of his sparse family would return home.

He clears his throat roughly, ignoring Charles’ questioning look.

“He’ll know by now,” Arthur says softly, staring stonily down the road.

Charles nods, his mouth twisting.

“What’s your plan if he sends folk after us? You fixing to kill him?” Arthur says, unkindly, fingers knotted in the reins.

“He won’t send anybody, Arthur,” Charles says softly. Arthur reckons that’s true. Not least of which is because he don’t have anyone to send now. Dutch is just left with his scant true believers. Micah would happily butcher them if he could lay hands on him, Bill too, but it’s a long way through hard country to come looking for vengeance.

“Didn’t even get all my things,” he mutters petulantly beneath his breath. Part of him knows he’s casting around for a fight, but after that first day, the shouts and stifled tears, Charles has refused to be baited. It makes Arthur want to scream.

“I got your things,” Charles sighs.

“I mean my - my photos. My old journals,” he says, awkwardly. It seems a foolish thing to latch onto with all the things changing around them. Everything’s moving too fast to be seen, let alone kept track of.

Charles glances over at him. “I know,” he says patiently. “I grabbed them when I went back up for the provisions.”

Arthur’s mouth drops open. “You did?”

Charles looks away, nodding. “Knew you’d want them. I’ve got them here,” he says, patting one saddlebag, “If you want them.”

Arthur swallows thickly, shaking his head. “You really thought of everything, didn’t you,” he murmurs. It ain’t entirely a compliment, and Charles seems to know that, ducking his head to avoid Arthur’s gaze.

There’s a photo in that bag of the four of them, Hosea and Dutch and John and himself, John so young he was still spotty, Hosea still with some blond in his hair. Dutch smiling at the camera with real joy and pride in his heart. Arthur don’t know what’s worse, disappointing that man out of memory, or returning to the madman wearing his skin in the present. Both make him feel like he’s failed.

He hasn’t asked many questions over the last few days, not since Charles stood in that awful clearing, heart on his sleeve and tears in his eyes, pleading, begging. Arthur hadn’t wanted to know, had let himself be pulled along in the strong current of Charles’ plan, heedless and mute. But the days have cooled his anger, if not the betrayal sitting in his chest, and he’s had some time to think, to piece together the things he’d so blindly ignore the past few weeks.

“Why’d you send Mary-Beth and Kieran along ahead?” he asks a few hours down the road.

Charles shrugs. They’re moving through rural farmland, shallow little fields dug out of the rough screen of boulders and stones. Up ahead, there’s a pretty little farm not far off the road, a modest house set back behind a verdant garden, hemmed in by low stone fences of piled rock. It seems to be the only homestead for miles, the country unfolding around it in long, strident fields and forests.

“Didn’t want Mary-Beth riding if they had to move out quick after we left,” Charles says absently, scanning the house. They’re a good day’s ride north out of Albany, but they’d run across some travelers the previous evening who’d mentioned some government folk kicking up a fuss in town, flashing their shiny badges around and asking questions. But there were more outlaws in the world than just themselves, Charles had said. It was probably nothing to do with them.

Arthur wished he believed that, but his luck ain’t nearly that good. Charles might plead optimism, but Arthur hasn’t missed they’ve been traveling at a quicker pace since then.

“What do you mean?” Arthur says, “Mary-Beth rides just fine, she’d’ve been okay just getting down to St. Denis.”

Charles frowns at him. “Sure, but if it got hectic, we didn’t want her getting thrown.”

“Seems an awful lot to risk, sending her and Kieran up with just Lenny just to spare her tailbone.”

“Arthur,” Charles says, a smile hiding skittishly somewhere in his expression. “She’s pregnant.”

Arthur reins up shortly, staring at Charles. “What? How?!”

Charles laughs softly, and it's lovely to hear. Lord knows they ain’t been laughing much the past few days. “The usual way, I expect.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, muttering, “Oh, ha ha, very funny.” He nudges Roisin back into a walk, snorting to himself quietly. “Kieran, then?”

Charles nods, still smiling.

Arthur considers that. It seems like this little escape plan isn’t the only thing he’s been blind to the last few weeks. “Didn’t figure the little streak of piss had it in him.”

Charles chuckles. “If I know Mary-Beth, I expect she took matters into her own hands,” Charles says, looking distant and fond. “You know she’s writing her own dirty lyrics?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Arthur says, “Good lord, Lenny tortured me for hours with those. We must be rubbin’ off on her.”

“Funnily enough, she’s actually got one about rubbing off on a lady,” Charles muses, “Lets see, how did it go…”

Arthur groans, rubbing his temples. “Leave it be, for Chrissake.”

Charles chuckles warmly, but when he goes on, his voice is quiet, careful. “Tilly was fretting about her. Mary-Beth’s just starting to show, and she was worried if Dutch found out…”

He leaves it hanging there, but Arthur can imagine. Dutch has always objected to men taking what he thinks is rightfully his. A year ago, Arthur would swear up and down that that would never extend to a woman, but now he’s not so sure. The brief spell of levity washes away, and he feels heavy all over again.

“The doctor,” he says, sighing. “In St. Denis. Good lord, I’m a fool.” And then something else clicks and he curses himself, feeling even denser. “Oh, for - the god damn winter clothes.”

Charles just looks back at him neutrally. Finally he sighs and says, “I told Tilly it was foolish bringing you down with them, but she wouldn’t hear it. She wanted to make sure Mary-Beth got down and back without any trouble.”

“I’m good enough for that work, I suppose,” Arthur says sourly.

“Hush,” Charles says, and before he can press it, Arthur hears a woman’s voice calling out to them, tinged with concern.

“What now?” Arthur murmurs, but they both rein to a stop, watching as a woman dashes down from the front porch of the cottage, skirts held knotted in her hands.

She’s a tall, pretty black woman, closer to middle age than not, her hair held back from her face in a tight bun. There are a few streaks of grey in her hair, but her face is full, creased with laugh lines.

“Hello Miss,” Arthur calls out. She looks concerned, her hands twisting in front of her. “Y’all right there?”

“Have you seen a girl on the road?” she asks. “A young girl, my daughter, Caroline. She’s not fifteen, but she went out looking for mushrooms and I haven’t seen her since, she was due back last night - I’d go out lookin’ but Blue Sky’s foaling and due any minute and my husband’s not due back from Albany until tonight and -”

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve seen her,” Charles says, frowning. “When did you last see her?”

The woman takes a deep breath, steadying herself. “Yesterday afternoon. I told her I didn’t want her camping out there by herself anymore, but she doesn’t _listen_ -”

“Easy now, Mrs…?”

“Cooper. Martha Cooper,” she says, frowning up the road north. “That child is going to be the _death_ of me, I swear it.”

“Where was she headed?” Charles ask

Martha swallows. “North, up by the border,” she says. “She’s got it in her head that she can dig up morels with all the rain we’ve had, and she’s wants this damn rifle she’s been pinching her pennies for, like her father doesn’t have half a dozen she can use whenever she wants, so she figures she’s going to sell them down in town and ride out with a gun that costs more than a God damn heffer.”

“Sounds like a handful,” Arthur says, smiling.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Mrs Cooper says, now looking more annoyed than upset. “I’m so sorry, gentlemen. It isn’t like she hasn’t done this before, but with Harold down in town all week, you just end up sitting out here fretting. I wouldn’t’ve troubled you but - well, some folk aren’t so - helpful,” she says carefully. She gestures at Charles, “If you’ll pardon my saying, I thought you two looked like you might be - more willing to help.”

Charles frowns. “People giving you trouble?”

The woman bites out a laugh. “No more than usual.” She pauses, still looking northward up the trail. “My husband’s white, you see,” she says, sighing. “Isn’t illegal here, but people don’t much seem to care about that.”

“Imagine they wouldn’t,” Charles says softly.

“Anybody you want us to talk to?” Arthur asks. “Anybody that might’ve - that might mean Miss Caroline harm?”

Martha shakes her head. “Nothing so bad as all that, I think. Just - people not buying our crops, foolishness like that. It’s why Harold’s down in Albany alone. We sell better when me and the girl aren’t around.”

“I’m real sorry about that, Mrs. Cooper,” Arthur says awkwardly, for lack of something better to say.

“It is what it is,” Martha says, resigned. She swallows hard, gathering herself. “Like I said, gentlemen, I’m real sorry for bothering you.”

“You sure we can’t help look for her?” Charles says, concerned. “If you know where she might be, we can -”

Martha shakes her head. “No, no, it’s okay. That girl is half feral, I swear, she knows these woods better than most men twice her age. If I know her, she camped out last night just to give me more gray hairs. She’ll probably be back inside the hour.”

Arthur chuckles, shaking his head. “Sounds like a fine woman you’re raising up.”

Martha rolls her eyes. “She’ll be lucky if she lives to see eighteen,” she sighs. “If you see her on the road, tell her to get herself home. Her father’s gonna be beside himself if she’s not here when he gets back.”

“We’ll do that,” Charles says, and Arthur nods. When she retreats to the house, Charles catches Arthur’s eyes and murmurs, “Keep your eyes on the sides of the trail. We’ll see if we can’t find where she got to.”

*

The morning runs away from them with no sign of the girl, the foliage hanging heavily above them, leaves twisting down out of the branches and falling into their path.

“Didn’t realize we were so close to the border,” Arthur says eventually, trying to swallow down his nerves. He’d let himself be drawn along a week gone, biting back tears and anger long enough to see the lost look in Charles eyes, the conviction. The fondness that Arthur treats so callously. He’d followed Charles northward, hating himself with each step, but he’d followed all the same. And yet, with the Canadian border looming so close, it feels like he’s betraying Dutch all over, Arthur’s tacit assent cutting deep into reality, blood red and aching.

“I’ll feel better once we’re across it,” Charles murmurs, scanning the trees around them. “I don’t like the Pinkertons being in Albany.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows at him. “Thought you said you didn’t think they were there for us.”

Charles keeps his eyes ahead on the road, his mouth twisting. “Well, I am a liar, remember?”

Arthur looks away, feeling the familiar thud of guilt wash through him. There’s few people alive these days he hasn’t hurt in some way, and he only seems better at it the more he loves someone. A delightful skill he’s honed to perfection over the years, he thinks grimly.

“Charles….”

“Don’t,” Charles says, sighing. “Leave it.” After a moment, he says, “I don’t know if they’re up this way for us. It doesn't make much sense, but if they knew we were in New Hanover, and they knew we were...leaving, then it isn’t a huge leap of logic to figure we were going for the border. There aren’t many places to cross, up this way.”

“How do you figure they knew we was running?”

Charles glances at him, some worry creasing his brow. “I don’t know. But it seems they know a hell of a lot they shouldn’t. Best to be careful.”

By noon, the cloudy sky has drifted into a ceaseless, foggy rain. They stop long enough to get out their oil-skin coats, but when Arthur asks if Charles wants to stop early for the night, he shakes his head. “We could make the border today if we keep moving. And…” He trails off, scanning the sides of the road fretfully.

“You want to see if we can’t find that girl,” Arthur says, understanding.

Charles nods wearily. “Could be she cut off to a side trail and we’ve missed her,” he says, almost sounding as though he believes it.

“We’ll keep riding,” Arthur says softly, trying to ignore the warmth in his chest when Charles smiles at him, the grin touching his eyes for the first time in days.

By early afternoon, they reach the top of a long, sloping hill and Charles reins up for a moment, looking at the unfolding forest below. The fog has lifted somewhat, and far in the distance there’s a suggestion of a town. “That’ll be Glen Hollow,” he says, gesturing. “We’ll cross the border there. Just another hour or two, I think.”

Arthur just nods tightly, not trusting his voice. Charles watches him, his face unreadable. When Arthur says nothing, Charles sighs, and is just starting to move Taima along when he stops.

“Oh dammit,” he murmurs, peering out down the trail.

“What?” Arthur digs his binoculars out of his bag, peering through the lenses. It takes him a moment to spot it even with the extra magnification, but Charles’ eyes have always been sharp. There’s a girl leading a horse on the road below, soaked through and limping a bit, determinedly trudging up the steep incline. “Ah, fuck,” he mutters, pulling the binoculars away.

“Let's go see what happened,” he says heavily, nudging Roisin into a trot.

The girl spots them before they reach her and is trying to step off the road and into the cover of the woods by the time they rein up beside her. She’s young, dark skinned, dressed in thick leather trousers and a sweater too big to be her own. She’s also glaring daggers at them, and if she’s fearful, she don’t show it. There’s an old rifle slung over her shoulder and she swings it down, holding it comfortably in her hands.

“Move along,” she says shortly, nodding up the road.

“We’re not lookin’ for trouble, Miss,” Arthur says carefully, raising his hands to show they’re empty.

“Lot of firepower you guys are strappin’ to be out here looking for a picnic,” she says, nodding at their saddles. “I got nothing worth stealing, so you fellas just head on out.”

“Are you Caroline Cooper?” Charles asks softly. The girl has been looking over Arthur intently, her mouth pursed into a frown, but when she glances up at Charles, her expression is somewhat less guarded.

“Who’s asking?”

“We ran into your mother when we were heading north. She was worried about you.”

The girl rolls her eyes, snorting. “I swear that woman needs to let me be, I’m doin’ just fine.”

“Don’t much look like it,” Arthur says carefully. “Y’alright? She said she was expecting you home last night.”

“She also expects me to practice my cross stitch most evenings, but she’s usually disappointed on that front, too,” Caroline mutters. She sighs and looks up at them consideringly, eyes flipping from Arthur’s face to Charles’ and back again, before she finally seems to reach a decision. “Elwyn here took a fall when we were off the trails,” she says, jerking her hand over her shoulder at the Palomino mare standing beside her, who butts the girl’s shoulder at mention of her name. “Nothing broken but she came up lame.” She laughs ruefully, gesturing at the ankle she’s favoring. “And so did I. It’s just taking a bit longer to get back home than I figured.”

“Did you sleep out last night?” Charles asks, looking her over. There’s a bedroll strapped to Elwyn’s saddle, but no tent.

“Didn’t have much choice,” Caroline says breezily, but she looks cold. The rain’s been coming down for hours now, and her sweater looks soaked through. It’s a wonder she’s not shivering.

“Didn’t you bring anything for the weather?” Arthur asks, and the girl turns a glare back on him.

“You sure you’re not my mother?” Caroline says, affecting wide-eyed concern. “Martha, you out here pretending to be some white yee-haw bothering young ladies on the road?”

Charles bursts out laughing, darting a look over at Arthur. “We’re just trying to help, Miss,” he says, but Caroline looks delighted with herself for dragging a laugh out of him.

“I’ll be just fine,” she says, starting to walk again, only flinching a little when she puts weight on her bad leg. “I’m sure you good samaritans got other folk to see to, so head on your way, please and thank you.”

Still saddled, Arthur and Charles exchange a long look.

“Up to you,” Arthur says, but he knows what Charles will say. There wasn’t ever any question. Charles looks longingly northward up the road, to the little town set against the border, the culmination of the plans put into motion only God knew how long ago. Eventually, he nods, turning Taima around down the trail.

“Suppose we can afford to burn a day to get her down back home safe,” Charles says.

“Course we can,” Arthur says, but it sits like lead in his belly.

*

Of course, getting Caroline to agree to some help is its own challenge, and they end up riding along beside her for half an hour before she gives up, throwing her hands up in the air.

“Good Lord, don’t you fools have anything better to do, I’m fine - don’t you dare help me up into the saddle, God as my witness, I will kick you where you’ll feel it for days,” she snaps at Arthur when he dismounts to help her up on Taima.

“Yes ma’am,” he says, watching her clamor awkwardly up, settling herself behind Charles with a huff. Arthur ties Elwyn's reins to his own saddle, shaking his head. The mare isn’t too bad off, far as he can tell, but the girl was right to not try and ride her. But with the way Elwyn is favoring her leg, they’ll be moving at an even slower pace getting her home.

“Don’t you got better places to be?” she asks, rolling her eyes when Arthur passes her up a spare jacket, but it doesn’t stop her putting it on.

“Sure,” Arthur drawls. “Just enjoyin’ your company so much we couldn’t help but want a few more hours of it.”

“Nothing we can’t delay doing,” Charles says, a smile in his voice.

Caroline mutters to herself, wrapped up tight in Arthur’s old coat. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Lawrence Eaves,” Charles says, and then points at Arthur. “Tacitus Kilgore.”

“Suuure you are,” she says, rolling her eyes. “So, _Lawrence and Tacitus_ , where you headed? You’re a weird pair.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Arthur mutters, but quiets when Charles sends him a look.

“We’re from down south a ways,” Charles says. “Coming up to do some trapping in Canada.”

“Awful long way to come for pelts,” she says, looking at the back of Charles head curiously. “What's your story, anyway? You ain’t all black, I know that much.”

Arthur chokes on his spit, but Charles surprises him by just chuckling. “My father was black. My mother was an Indian.”

The girl whistles through her teeth. “I figured I had it bad. My daddy’s white.”

“You run into a lot of trouble up this way?” Charles asks carefully, and the girl just shrugs, picking at the loose hem of Arthur’s coat cuff.

“The people that know my Ma and Pa are...usually decent enough.” She shrugs. “Momma’s folks ain’t around anymore and daddy’s folks tossed him out when they got hitched.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Charles says quietly.

Caroline just shrugs again, “I never knew them, and they don’t sound like the kind of people that I’d like to know anyway. Ain’t much in the way of black folk up this way, and the ones that know about my daddy keep their distance. The white folks sure as hell know I’m not one of them.”

Charles only nods, pursing his lips. “Isn’t easy being caught between.”

“You seem to be doin’ okay,” the girl says, something strangely hopeful in her voice.

“I got good friends,” Charles says, nodding over at Arthur. “Still, it hasn’t been what you’d call a simple life.”

This doesn’t sound like a conversation they need Arthur for, that’s for certain. Arthur clears his throat, looking down at the horn of his saddle as he says, “I’mma ride up ahead. Make sure there ain’t any trouble comin’. You holler if you need me.”

“He always that awkward?” he hears Caroline ask as he and the horses trot ahead.

There’s a small noise from Charles, almost a laugh, but his voice is fond when he says, “Yeah. More or less.”

*

It’s gone six by the time they get back to the stretch of road round the Cooper’s farm, and Arthur drops back to ride with them, fearful of losing them as the sun finishes its descent behind the horizon.

“No, no, no,” Charles is saying, chuckling, “You have to learn to use a bow. You miss your shot with a bow, your down that buck and an arrow. You miss with a rifle and you just scare off all the game for a mile around.”

Caroline rolls her eyes. “That’s why I don’t miss, _Lawrence_.”

“You two seem to be getting on,” Arthur says, smiling at them.

“He’s just tryin’ to sell me on old fashioned stuff,” Caroline says, sniffing. “It doesn’t make much sense to me.”

“I’d trust him,” Arthur says diffidently, “He managed to teach me to use a bow, and that probably took the patience of a saint.”

“You weren’t all bad,” Charles says fondly, but he seems to catch himself almost immediately and forces the smile away, as if uncertain Arthur will tolerate it.

It makes a lance of guilt cut through him, but it ain’t like he’s given Charles much reason to think differently the past few days, so cold and wrapped up in his own grief, walling himself off as smartly and curtly as he could.

“You guys are strange,” the girl says, into the awkward silence that follows.

Arthur sighs, “You’re not wrong.”

Ahead, the cottage is lit brilliantly, and through the quiet chatter of the evening Arthur can hear a man bellowing in the woods, calling out Caroline’s name in something near to panic.

“Ah, God dammit,” Caroline mutters. “He’s gonna give himself a conniption if he keeps on like that.”

“That your daddy?” Charles asks, urging Taima into a quick little trot.

“Yeah,” she mumbles, steeling herself. “C’mon, lets get this over with.”

‘This,’ as it turns out, is a frantic welcome home, Martha rushing out of the house to meet them at the stable, shouting out at Harold to bring him back in from the woods.

“Oh, thank God, thank God,” Martha says, near tears as she sweeps Caroline into a hug, burying her face in the girl’s hair. “Oh, you foolish thing, you had me so worried.”

“Careful!” Caroline says, hissing as the jostling makes her put weight on her leg.

“What is it - what’s wrong, did anyone hurt you -”

“No,” Caroline says, petulantly. “Just Elwyn losing her footing. Turned my ankle, that’s all.”

By now, Harold has returned at a sprint from the dark forest around the house. He’s a big man, tall and thick through the shoulders, a long, black beard growing wild down his chest. When he sees the ladies embracing, his eyes go shiny with relief, and he rushes forward to them, folding them both into his wide, heavy arms.

“I _told_ you not to go so far,” Arthur hears the man say, but it’s choked with emotion, his voice clogged and catching in his throat.

“I had it handled! No need to call in the Goddamn infantry,” Caroline says, but it’s muffled through the embrace.

“Language!” her mother says, but she’s laughing and watery, gently pressing her hands around Caroline’s face, giddy with relief.

“I’m gonna see to Elwyn,” Charles says quietly to Arthur, leading the horse to the stable. “You deal with this.”

“Deal with - dammit Charles!” Arthur hisses back in a whisper, watching as Charles leads the limping horse back into the stable.

Harold turns from the girls, clasping Arthur’s hand tightly in both of his. He’s got more than four inches on Arthur, and his body looks thick with the kind of muscle you only get through practical labor. Arthur wouldn’t want to go up against him in a fight, that’s for damn sure. But like so many giant men Arthur’s known, his face seems kind, and he’s careful not to crush Arthur’s hand in his own.

“I can’t thank you enough, sir,” he says, brushing tears out of his eyes. “I only just got back in and when Martha said she’d been gone a whole day - I.” He swallows thickly, gazing at the two women with wide-eyed devotion, his breath shuddering out of him. “I don’t like to say what I thought.” He turns back to Arthur, bare faced with emotion. “ _Thank you_.”

“Wasn’t all that,” Arthur mumbles. “Was my friend Lawrence that spotted her,” he says, nodding back at the stable. “Couldn’t leave her alone, walkin’ all that way.”

The man shakes his head, laughing unsteadily. “But so many people would've.”

“I’m gonna go check on that dumb horse,” Caroline says, patiently disengaging herself from her mother’s arms. “Did Blue Sky foal yet?”

Her mother nods, wiping away tears with the edge of her hand. “Little colt, looks healthy enough.”

The girl lights up with excitement, enough that it reminds Arthur she’s more child than not, excited at the prospect of a baby horse, nevermind all her earlier bravado.

“Caroline said your name was Tacitus?” Martha says, turning to him. “Come on now, lets get you inside and give you some dinner.”

“Oh no, I really couldn’t,” Arthur says, “My friend’s just checking on the horse, and then we’ll have to head on back out.”

“Nonsense,” Martha says, determined. Arthur sees a shadow of Miss Grimshaw’s resolve in her expression, and realizes it’s useless fighting. “At least let me get you some food for the road.”

It’s an awkward twenty minutes, sitting at the kitchen table, lying to these nice people about how they’re laid off factory workers, headed up north to try their hands at trapping. Arthur manages to haggle Martha down to only taking two chains of smoked sausage and some oven-fresh bread for the road. Harold, for all his earlier openness, has started to watch Arthur carefully, and it’s making his skin crawl.

“Thank you,” Arthur says, trying to edge out the door without the woman offering him her set of silver, “No, no, really, you’ve been far too kind. I’m just - I’m gonna go check on my friend, if that’s alright.”

“Leave the man be, Martha,” Harold says, stepping up behind her and wrapping his arms around her snugly. He smiles at Arthur, but there’s something serious hiding in his expression. “Just let us see you off when you go, you hear?”

Arthur nods, slipping away from the door with a gusty sigh. He’s aching with exhaustion - they’ve been riding more or less constantly since dawn, and more than half of that was scooping this girl up and seeing her home. They’ve lost ground, and while there ain’t no reason to expect they’re followed, Arthur knows it’s weighing heavily on Charles’ mind.

Charles, he thinks, who planned out this whole - rescue. Who’d lied and tricked and stolen him away, without his consent, without _asking_. Who had needed to _beg_ Arthur to continue on with him, who had done so without hesitation - damn his ego and his pride. Charles, who’d never fought to keep the things he’d loved before, who’d done all this expecting fully that Arthur would leave him. Who had accepted that, tears in his eyes, but _accepted_ it as the price of getting Arthur out alive.

There was an ache in Arthur’s chest, and for the first time he realizes it’s not just the guilt of fleeing from Dutch. It’s the hurt he’s put them both through, sitting stubbornly in rising water as Charles did all he could to lift him out. And he was angry about that? Angry for having some impossible decision taken away, replaced with a dream he’d never even admitted to himself?

Arthur swallows hard, stowing the provisions away on Roisin’s saddle. He walks to the stable, pausing at the doorway when he hears voices inside.

“Your family seem like good people,” Charles is saying. They’re leaning against a stall, looking in at something Arthur can’t see. “That’s not nothing. Not saying everyone is kind, but -”

“I know,” the girl sighs, scuffing her foot in the dirt. “I know that. You got family?”

“Just the ones I chose,” Charles says softly.

“Like that _Tacitus_ you’re riding with?”

Charles shrugs. “Yeah, I chose him.” He smiles sadly. “Not altogether sure he’s going to choose me back, though.”

From the house, Martha calls outs. “Caroline Cooper, you know you have to get in here and wash up, water’s almost ready!”

“Oh for Chrissake,” Caroline mutters. Arthur’s got a feeling that if he could see her face, she’d be blushing. “Thanks again, Lawrence. I’ll think about that bow.”

“You do that,” Charles says, smiling as he watches her leave. When his eyes land on Arthur, the smile shutters, and he turns back to the stall.

When Caroline passes him, she knocks her shoulder against his, or tries to. She’s not tall enough, so it just hits him mid-arm. “You be kind to him,” she says mutinously, glaring up at him.

Arthur laughs softly and nods his head. “I’ll try, Miss.”

Satisfied, she stalks off to the house, grumbling to herself.

After a moment, Arthur pushes off the doorjamb he’s been leaning in, walking quietly up behind Charles.

In the stall, there’s a tired-looking grey mare, dutifully chewing through some oats as a day-old foal jumps around her legs, tripping over its own hooves and drunkenly stumbling around.

“Thank you,” Charles says, when they’ve been standing there quiet for a few moments. “For turning back.” He laughs shortly. “For coming with me at all.”

Like that’s anything to be thankful for, Arthur thinks, watching Charles’ weary face, some small grin still tucked around his lips, just watching the foal dance around in the hay. It seems there ain’t much Charles won’t give up to do the right thing. Time. Love.

“Charles,” Arthur breathes, and when Charles turns to face him, Arthur takes his face in both hands, pressing a kiss against his lips, afraid for one awful second that he’ll be pushed away. Lord knows he deserves it, all those hateful things he said, how sullen and wretched he’s been this past week. By rights, Charles should kick him away. But by rights Charles never should have taken up with him in the first place, not when he was so good, so kind.

But what Charles does is make a cracked, broken noise into Arthur’s mouth, lips parting beneath Arthur’s, his mouth sweet and wet and pressed tenderly open. Charles hands go to Arthur’s wrists, still cupped around his cheeks, and when Arthur pulls back, his vision blurry, he can see that Charles’ eyes are damp as well.

“I’m still mad,” Arthur says, softly, rubbing his thumbs back along Charles’ cheeks. Charles shuts his eyes and nods, his Adam’s apple bouncing in his throat. Arthur licks his lips, his breath aching each time he draws air. “But it don’t much change the fact that I love you.”

Charles drags him back in for a deeper kiss, staggering back against the stall door, pulling Arthur in roughly by his collar. It doesn’t stay sweet for very long, their mouths wet and teeth clicking together messily. Arthur slides his hands back up into Charles’ hair. There was a world out there somewhere where he left this behind, went down to die at the foot of Dutch’s altar, where he’d never feel this way again, torn open and feeling so small next to the enormity of this thing between them, consuming and lovely and so pure it felt sacred.

“I’m not sorry,” Charles breathes, running his hands down Arthur’s chest.

“Good,” Arthur says, and is leaning back into kiss him when he hears a voice gasp at the barn door.

They spring apart, but there ain’t really any hiding it. Charles clothes are knocked askew and Arthur’s lips feel wet, bruised. When they turn to the door, they see Caroline there, clutching a basket.

“Momma wanted you to take some of the apples from the orchard,” she says faintly.

“Uh…” Arthur says, casting around for something to say, but it seems like Caroline gets her feet back under her quicker than either of them, and she giggles, raising an eyebrow at Charles.

“You really don’t make things easy on yourself, do you?”

Charles sighs heavily, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. “No, not really.”

“Jesus Christ. Well, Daddy’ll be glad the two strangers that looked after me _really_ didn’t have any intentions on my virtue.”

“ _Caroline_ ,” Arthur hisses, blushing bright red. She laughs again, strained, and shakes her head.

“Secret’s safe with me,” she says, still tittering. “Daddy wants to see you off, though. Thought they were gonna insist you stay, but Momma said you’ve made up your mind.”

“We got places to be,” Arthur says, and Caroline makes a skeptical noise.

“I got a feelin you got places to be away _from_ , but I’m not asking any more questions. Here, help me get these on your horses.”

*

They sort out the extra provisions between Roisin and Taima, and the Coopers come down to see them off. Martha has a hug for each of them and another bag of goods - this time some salted steaks that she’d ‘just found lying around, they need eating up and I won’t take no for an answer.’

Caroline nods at Arthur, but she gives Charles a brief hug, darting in and away before he can properly return it.

“You ladies head on in,” Harold says gently. When Caroline groans, her mother tugs at her sleeve.

“You’re getting in that bath water hot or cold my girl, up to you,” Martha says, stringing Caroline along behind her. “Safe travels now, you two!”

When they’re alone in the golden light spilling from cottage, Arthur and Charles make the last checks on their saddles.

“Something on your mind, Mr. Cooper?” Arthur asks finally, when the man’s lingering has grown awkward.

Harold sighs, idly petting his beard. “Was down Albany the past few days,” he says finally.

“Your wife mentioned. Selling off some crops?”

“That’s right. So...I was down the market when those government fellas rode in.” Harold purses his lips. “Pinkertons, I think they was called.”

Arthur and Charles both pause, exchanging a look over their saddles.

“That so?” Arthur says carefully.

“Uh-huh,” Harold says. “They was lookin’ for an Arthur Morgan and a Charles Smith. White fella and a black fella, thought to be traveling north.” Harold looks away, considering. “They sounded like real dangerous folk, if I’m being honest.”

When they don’t respond, Harold sighs. “I’m just telling you cos - you boys seem like nice folk, especially with what you did for my Caroline.” He gives them a significant look. “Thought you might want to watch your back, out on the road.”

Arthur lets out a long, steady breath, closing his eyes. “Thank you,” he says, turning to face the man. “We - uh, appreciate the warning.”

Harold nods stiffly. After a moment he says, “Uh - there was. Something else. That Pinkerton fella and his men, they ended up at the same pub I did the end of the day,” Harold says, looking out at the forest. “You know working men like them, can’t handle their liquor. So the bossman got in a bit of a tiff with one of his men. Fella didn’t seem too happy with you - with those men, Charles and Arthur, I mean, getting so far ahead of them.”

“Okay,” Arthur says slowly.

“The head man, think his name was Miller? Milton? Something like that. He might’ve mentioned something ‘bout closing the border up at Glen Hollow.”

Charles closes his eyes, drawing a slow careful breath.

“We’ll figure it out,” Arthur says to Charles quietly, swallowing. “We’ll - we’ll figure it out.”

Charles nods, but he looks so exhausted, worn down.

“Wait,” Harold says, struggling. He sucks his teeth, muttering to himself. “It - it might be that back in my day I did a bit of - ohh, lets call it some….light smuggling.” He gives them a cheeky grin. “Nothing too - nefarious, mind. Just, tryin’ to save up enough money to marry my Martha. Just the sort of thing that we didn’t necessarily want Uncle Sam getting a cut of.”

Arthur nods, not quite yet daring to hope. “Seems a reasonable business practice.”

Harold chuckles. “Just give me your map, _Tacitus_ , I’ll show you the old route we used. You’ll have to ford the river a bit, and there’s a steep descent down from the ridge, so best to do it in daylight.”

Harold sketches out the route carefully, muttering to himself as he recalls details worn down by the years. “It’ll add a bit of time to your trip, of course. If you can make it as far as the trail off the Post Road tonight, you’ll have a day of traveling in the backcountry tomorrow. I’d camp on the ridge, were I you. It’ll be late tomorrow by the time you make it. It’s hell to go down it in the dark, and the days are only getting shorter.”

“Thank you,” Arthur says sincerely, folding the map away. The last light of the day is fading into night, and while the trail head is only an hour’s ride north, it’s deceptively easy to miss, if Harold’s directions are anything to go by.

“Thank you for seeing to my daughter,” Harold says seriously before giving them grin. “And fuck Uncle Sam, anyway, if that’s the sort of bastards they’re keepin’ on payroll.”

“You mentioned Milton was fighting with one of his men?” Charles asks, swinging up into his saddle. “Seems strange.”

“The fella seemed strange too, to be honest,” Harold says, brow furrowed. “All his other lads looked like spit-shined city slickers, but this man was a rough customer. Weasley little bastard.” Harold’s expression turns stormy. “Didn’t quite like the words he used for some of the black folk at the bar, neither. Had an awful nasty cough, too.”

*

“So there _was_ a rat,” Arthur says, still feeling leaden as they ride out from the farm, his gut churning.

“Not much to do for it now,” Charles says, watching Arthur warily. “We can’t turn-”

“I know,” Arthur says quickly, darting a glance over at him. He’s too exhausted, in soul and body, to feel anything more than ache. Of course Micah was a yellow little bastard of a snitch. Of course he was egging Dutch on into the depths of his madness. In an awful way it all made sense. But he looks at Charles, the tentative hope in his eyes, and pushes those awful, cycling thoughts aside. All that he can deal with later. Right now Charles is in front of him, waiting with an open hand.

There’s a jab in his chest when he thinks of Dutch, of all the ways he’s been betrayed, but it’s more distant now, numbed, like a nerve that’s been firing in agony for ages, now deadened to new pain. Maybe it’ll get better. Maybe it won’t. But it’s liveable, which is all he can ask for.

“Isn’t to say I won’t gut that sunovabitch if I ever see him again,” Arthur says. “Keep him alive long enough for the whole gang to get a few solid punches in. Hell, we could even send for Molly out in Chicago, let her get her turn, too.”

“It’ll be a lovely reunion,” Charles says, forcing a weak laugh.

“So,” Arthur says, as they set out northwards down the road, “Tell me about this farm we bought, then.” It comes out tentative, a bit uncertain, but Charles seems to take it as the peace offering it is. His expression goes soft and he nods.

“It’s called Serendipity,” Charles says, his voice soft and low and lovely. “But Hosea wants to rename it, I don’t know what yet. Belonged to an old widower, but the main house has four bedrooms, and the farm hand lodgings are still in good repair….”

They make their way up the trail, talking, laughing, late into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of me feels like they should have fought for longer, but Arthur was a dick off screen for like a whole week, so that counts, right? 
> 
> Many thanks to [arthur-dirtydick-morgan](https://arthur-dirtydick-morgan.tumblr.com/) for looking this over for me! 
> 
> Find me over at [allthingsmustfall](https://allthingsmustfall.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Comments and kudos are love ❤️


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late update! Had a Bad Brain Week, but through it now.
> 
> T/W for racist and homophobic language

They make camp that night after picking up the smugglers' trail, setting up a quarter mile off the road, using lanterns to find their footing. The clouds have remained low and heavy all evening, throwing the forest into deep and treacherous shadow. Off the trail, the ground is spongy with leaf litter and brush, making a fire impractical, so they eat their food cold, pressed against each other for warmth.

“We should split watches,” Arthur says regretfully. Charles eyes are heavy with sleep, dozing where he sits, and Arthur aches to kiss him, to take him to bed and press his apologies against his skin, where his awkward words have failed him. The awfulness of the past week still lingers, but for the first time in his memory, there’s a life unfolding away from Arthur that stretches deep into the unknown. Since he was old enough to think about it, he figured he'd go down in some gunfight beside Dutch, that the only mark he’d leave upon the world was an anonymous, simple grave. The vastness of this newfound uncertainty isn't wholly welcome, but there’s something deeply exhilarating about the blank pages open before them, whole volumes he could fill with a new life, chapters that he’d never even dreamed to write.

In the sweet leaf-litter smell of autumn, his mouth tasting of Martha’s cooking, Arthur leans over and kisses Charles, holding his chin in his hand, soft and hopeful.

Charles smiles sleepily, watching Arthur with a glint in his eye that Arthur figures he’ll spend the rest of his life living up to. He yawns hugely and says, “I’ll take first watch.”

“Like hell you will,” Arthur says, rolling to his feet. “I’ve got it. You just go make the blankets warm, you hear me?”

Charles, blinking sleepily, doesn’t put up a fight.

His watch passes without incident, only the distant jingle of a few riders going by on the Post Road. Harold had assured them that the smuggling route would be empty, what with himself and the lads he ran with all settled down from their wilder days, and so far that seems to be true.

They trade places in the depths of the night, Arthur rolling into the bedroll that smells richly of Charles, falling almost instantly into a deep and exhausted sleep. But it hardly seems any time has passed before Charles is shaking his shoulder gently, rousing him at dawn’s first light.

“Better get a move on,” Charles says apologetically. “I’d like to make a try on that ridge tonight, if we have enough light.”

But Harold’s predictions hold out. As good as his directions are, they don’t reach the ridge until the sun’s coming down on the world, the sunset made brilliant by the last strips of clouds clinging to the bowl of the sky, throwing up brilliant swaths of red and pink and gold. It’s easy enough to pick their way up the ridge from the south, but the north side is more cliff than not, dropping almost straight down to the river rushing by a hundred feet below. There’s a narrow crossback path descending, but it’s old and unused, looking all the more faint in the half-light of evening.

“Taima and Roisin are sure footed enough, but I don’t trust that path at night,” Arthur says, peering over the lip of the cliff.

Charles sighs, but he nods. “We’ll set out early tomorrow,” he says. “Once we’re over that river, we’re in Canada. It’ll just be another day or two up to Lamarch.”

There’s an ache in Arthur’s chest, half joy, half sorrow, but it doesn’t rip him open as much as he feared. He leans over, kissing Charles to distract him from the frown creasing his brow, his palm light and careful on the back of his neck.

The trail over the ridge cuts through a bald notch in the peak, a fifty foot wide clearing of bare stone, hemmed in with thick underbrush and empty, forgotten crates of contraband. Around it there’s a steep incline up to narrow peaks on either side, crowned with a few stubborn pines. The wind funnels through the channel brutally, dropping the temperature ten degrees from the sheltered, southern slope of the ridge.

“Lets cut back to that cabin Harold mentioned,” Charles says, raising his hands to blow warm air into them. “It’s too cold up here to make camp.”

They find the windowless, half-forgotten cabin a few hundred feet back on the trail. It’s half returned to the earth, the shingles trimmed with rich, green moss and ivy spreading like spiderwebs over the external walls. They bust the rusted lock easily and are surprised to find the interior mostly dry. When Harold described it, he hadn’t even been sure the cabin would still be standing, but it’s weathered the years well enough to keep out the worst of the wind.

“I figure Harold and his buddies had a good time here,” Arthur says, chuckling. There’s some dusty old bottles of moonshine in one corner and a pack of dirty playing cards sitting on a rough table in the center of the room. A moment inspection finds some saucy illustrations of ladies tacked up on the walls, faded with years.

“Think I know where Caroline gets some of her cheek,” Charles says. From the detritus cluttering up the corners of the shack, he produces an unopened bottle of moonshine, grinning over at Arthur. “Want to try his contraband?”

The liquor is brutal and sends them both into coughing fits, laughing together like school boys stealing whiskey out of their parents’ liquor cabinet.

“Well,” Arthur says, his throat still burning. “We can use it to clear out wounds, if nothing else.”

The chimney proves to be intact enough to permit a small fire, and so many miles from the nearest road, they afford themselves the luxury. It puts Arthur in mind of that night months ago, when they’d sagged against each other far west in the Grizzlies, before any of this had started, when Arthur was still craving Charles’ companionship without understanding why. He’d been happy and confused and half drunk then, contentedly dozing with Charles’ arm thrown across his shoulders, tucking him in close.

But tonight is better, though colder and far more complicated than that perfect moment trapped in amber. The ride today had been long but not difficult, and the sun had even made a cool, bright appearance around mid-afternoon. For the first time in what felt like weeks, the exhaustion has burned away from Arthur’s skin like a fever.

They stand at the fire, warming their hands in the crackling heat, and Arthur watches Charles, whose face is far away, his brow creased with a frown. Probably churning over whatever problems that need solving in this last little sprint northwards. He looks so lovely, Arthur thinks, bathed in the soft firelight, his mouth pursed, hair loose around his shoulders. It seems impossible that Charles has looked out at the world and plucked Arthur from the rubble of his life, picked him out as something worth caring for. He’d call Charles a fool for it, but he knows that ain’t true. Which leaves Arthur wondering how he became a man worth saving, after all those bloody years of his life, killing and robbing. He doesn’t see the sense in it, but he figures if he can’t trust himself, he can trust Charles. That has to count as a start.

Uncertainly, still unsure of his welcome, Arthur reaches for Charles, but pauses before he can slide his hand over his hip. Arthur had said such awful things when they were fighting, and it ain’t like he’s done much to show he’s sorry, it would make sense if Charles didn’t want this from him now. But before the moment can become awkward, Charles turns to him, his smile bright and unrestrained.

“Come here,” he says, pulling Arthur into a kiss that only stays gentle a few moments before it gets dirty, deep and wet and spreading heat into Arthur’s blood.

“I want - can I have you?” Arthur asks softly, one they’ve been necking for a while, his mouth slick and one hand pressed up into Charles’ hair. It’s been a long time, but he wants so badly to slide into Charles, to remind himself they’re both still breathing, to feel the strength in Charles’ arms, to see his eyes shut in pleasure. “We don’t gotta, I just -”

But Charles is already nodding, tugging Arthur back to their bedrolls, saying, “Yeah, please, I want that too -”

The fire has made the cabin almost warm, but they still don’t make it all the way out of their clothes, tumbling down to the floor after only sliding out of their pants and underthings. Arthur still has his goddamn socks on, his shirt unbuttoned down his chest. They must look ridiculous, Arthur thinks, once he’s braced over Charles, sinking into him long minutes later, careful and restrained. But it doesn’t _feel_ ridiculous. Charles eyes are closed and he’s locked his ankles together in the small of Arthur’s back, breathing steadily as Arthur gets inside him. It’s been long enough since they’ve done it this way that it makes them careful, and being careful makes them more tender with one another, dragging wet kisses across the skin they can get at, letting themselves be louder than they usually risk, safe in this little island of light and warmth, deep in the sea of rural night.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur gasps, rocking deeply inside him. His eyes feel damp with gratitude and relief, his throat tight as he dips his head to suck a kiss below Charles ear. “I - you’re the bravest man I know, you’re no coward, Charles, I -”

Charles shushes him, dragging him into a kiss, jerking in Arthur’s arms when he slides in just right. “I know, I know - I’m sorry I lied, I couldn’t leave you -”

Afterwards, they redress reluctantly; the night is cool and the fire only does so much to chase the chill from the room. Charles lays on his back, letting Arthur lie on his side beside him, dragging his hands slowly through Charles’ hair.

“I was so sure the last time was going to be the last time,” Charles admits quietly, pressing his head into Arthur’s hand.

Arthur drops a soft kiss down onto his mouth, closing his eyes against the rush of guilt that comes for him. “We’re both fools,” Arthur says softly.

Charles laughs. “Didn’t know what I was gonna do if I couldn’t get you to come hunting with me.”

“Lucky you had Hosea to guilt me into it.” Arthur says with a sigh, and then winces when something occurs to him. “Uh. About that. Hosea. Seems like he knows. ‘Bout us, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Charles says, opening his eyes to look at Arthur. “I didn’t tell him,” he says, something careful and defensive in his voice. “But when I went to him about all this, he’d already...well, figured it out. Not sure how.”

“Too clever for his own good,” Arthur sighs, still petting his hand through Charles’ hair. He’s quiet a moment before carefully asking, “You figure anyone else knows?”

Charles smirks. “You mean before or after you pranced around half naked in front of Sean in the middle of the night?”

Arthur blushes hotly, ducking his head. “Well how the hell was I supposed’t know? Jesus, that dumb mick is lucky I didn’t sting him up.”

Charles just chuckles, his eyes warm. “Don’t worry too much, he already knew.” When Arthur looks at him questioningly, Charles sighs and says, “Karen.”

“And how the hell’d she know?”

Charles hums, eyes flicking closed. Eventually, he says, “You remember when we went hunting bounties up in the Grizzlies?”

“I do,” he says quietly, pressing a kiss under Charles’ jaw. It had been the first time he’d felt anything other than sorrow after their slog out of Blackwater - fighting some slimy bastards during the day, taking Charles to bed at night, waking beside him come morning. It was foolish and self-indulgent and the sweetest memory had of those first tumultuous weeks in Valentine.

Charles sighs, tipping his head to give Arthur more room. “Well... day we got back to camp, I was changing my shirt at the tent, and Karen was watching me.”

Arthur lifts his head, glaring. “Was she,” he says darkly.

Charles just laughs. “She watches you too, you know.”

“Don’t know why,” he mutters, feeling a flush start at the tip of his ears.

Charles looks at him, his expression satisfied and drowsy. “ _I_ do,” he says, and laughs when Arthur rolls his eyes. “Anyway...she’s watching me real close, and all of a sudden asks me where I’d been last night. We’d been out of camp for a few weeks, and so I just told her you and I had camped outside Valentine. And she just says, ‘oh’ real quiet and asks if we’d gone into town, to one of the saloons or something. And I said, no, we hadn’t, we’d barely seen any souls but the bounties and each other for nearly a month. And then she goes all quiet and scampers off to talk to the girls.”

Charles looks up at Arthur. “Didn’t realize until later that you’d left a mark this big,” he says, holding his thumb and pointer finger two inches apart, “On the back of my shoulder. Kind of hard to mistake it for what it was.”

“Ah, shit,” Arthur sighs, cheeks flaming. “I’m sorry, I should’ve -”

“I didn’t mind then and I don’t mind now,” Charles says, looking up at him slyly. “But, Karen isn’t stupid, much as I wish she was sometimes, so she put it together quick. She told Sean and Abigail and Mary-Beth before word got back to me.”

Arthur glowers. “And how’d word get back to you, exactly?”

Charles sighs. “Tilly. She, uh…” Charles winces, tucking himself closer against Arthur’s chest. “She had me figured out early on. Caught me looking too long at you a few times, put two and two together.”

Arthur hasn’t ever noticed Charles looking at him like that, not when they weren’t alone and half naked in some tent or room. He frowns. “When was this?”

Charles shrugs evasively, ducking his head. “Oh...back when we were were camped outside Rodego in New Austin.”

Arthur stares at him. “That was months before we - before you -. Ah, hell, you know what I mean.”

Charles glances up at him. “I just….liked looking. Even before I hoped that you might...well.” He swallows, and Arthur thinks that Charles cheeks might be warm now, even if he can’t see the blush. “She sussed me out, like I said. When we started doing what we’re doing, she caught on quick.” Charles smiles sheepishly. “Said I looked happier.”

“Huh,” Arthur says eventually, swallowing dryly. Tilly had never so much as looked at him sideways, and she’d known for _months_...

“So…” Charles sighs, “When Karen tried to spread it around to Tilly, she damn near shouted Karen out of her skin. Told me what Karen told her, and I gave Karen a little talk.” Charles rolls his eyes. “She thought it was funny, I suppose. Forgot that men’d kill us for if they knew, including some of the folk in the gang.”

“Jesus Christ,” Arthur sighs, closing his eyes. “That damn fool girl.”

Charles nods wearily. “She got the picture of it quick enough. Got tearful on me, swore up and down she’d swear Sean and the girls to secrecy.” Charles shrugs. “I haven’t ever - I never had anything like this before,” he says softly. “Something made for lasting. I wasn’t keen on folks knowing, but keeping it fully a secret wasn’t an option any more, so…”

“What about the rest?” Arthur asks quietly, smoothing his hand through Charles’ hair. “John and Javier and them?”

“I don’t know,” Charles says. “Javier and I….we argued a bit, when you were still missing. That first night, I wanted to ride out looking for you, but Dutch wasn’t having any of it. So I asked Javier to come with me.” Charles closes his eyes, mouth twisting. “We got into it. He didn’t like me disobeying Dutch, wanted to know I was so sure you were in trouble. I told him you usually tell me how long you’re going to be out of camp, and that got him riled - said you never checked in with anyone else before, so why would you tell me?”

Charles sighs. “So we shouted a bit and I went out lookin’ alone. Caught him looking at me strange a few times when I was seeing to your injuries after. I don’t know if he knows, but he might be suspicious.”

“Well,” Arthur says, sighing, “I figure if they don’t like it, they don’t gotta stay. Ain’t ever hid the nasty stuff I done, don’t see the sense in hiding lovin’ you.”

Charles pulls him down into a deep kiss, fingers knotted tight in Arthur’s hair. “Nice sentiment,” he says gently when they part, his fingers petting through Arthur’s short hair. “Doesn’t mean folk won’t make life difficult for us. More than difficult, if they’re feeling like picking a fight.”

“I ain’t saying I’m gonna take out an ad in the paper,” Arthur says, “But the folk that come with us? That you saved? I figured you bought enough loyalty to not have to hide on your own land.”

Charles laughs. “Land’s in Sadie’s name, she’s the only one of us with a halfway decent record, even up in Canada,” he says, smiling softly. “But,” he adds, before Arthur can argue, “I hear you. Isn’t like Sean won’t spill the beans first time he gets a few drinks under his belt, the damn, idiot child.”

Suddenly, Charles chuckles and adds, “Don’t know if Abigail ever told John, though.”

“He’s a fuckin’ idiot,” Arthur says fondly, rearranging them so he’s curled around Charles’ back, his face pressed into his neck. “Unless Abigail told him outright using small words, ain’t no way he knows.” He grins into Charles hair. “Can’t wait to see his face when he figures it out.”

*

_The wind whips through the quiet glade, silent and gale-force strong, beating at the reeds around Arthur’s prone form. Above him, the heavy tree branches are slamming around in a frenzied, chaotic dance. The dark pool is choppy, the starlight shattered into fractals, small waves slamming soundlessly onto the shore. Arthur leans against the trunk of an ancient pine; he feels ripped open, his shirt tacky with cold blood and gore, and he wheezes, watching the golden stag graze heedlessly, nibbling the new growth on a low bush._

_Arthur tries to say '_ run' _and coughs up something awful, choking on mucus and clotted blood. The wolf is in the shadows, drawing closer; Arthur can see the silver moonlight gleaming in its eye. But the stag only lifts his head and stares at Arthur intelligently, blinking slowly._

_‘Run, please,’ Arthur whispers, an awful, wet cough rattling out of him. His body feels so weak, and his lungs feel as though they’re drowning, scraped raw and hemorrhaging into his chest. It could have been this way, he thinks, wildly. It could have been him drowning on dry land, following Dutch into an open grave. If it hadn’t been for Charles, all this blood would have come for him, dragging him down into its depths._

_’You did well, this time.’ says the stag, golden and lovely, the chaos of the woods a churning hell around it. The wolf is coiled in the shadows, ready to leap._

_‘But,’ it says, proud and perfect and unafraid, ‘The dark is not yet done with you just yet. Wake._ Run _.'_

_The wolf springs._

*

Arthur comes awake with a gasp, Charles still in his arms, warm and solid and real. His lungs are clear and there is no awful, drained exhaustion clinging to his limbs. He barely has a moment to enjoy it; he springs to his feet, frantically pulling on his boots.

“Arthur, what’s -”

“Something’s wrong,” Arthur says, leaning down to pull Charles to his feet. “Come on, we ain’t got time-”

“What are you talking about?” Charles says, blinking sleep out of his eyes, watching Arthur with concern.

“Please,” Arthur says, pausing long enough to meet Charles’ eyes. “Trust me. Charles, something’s not right-”

God bless him, Charles doesn’t tarry a moment longer. He just nods shortly, and pulls on his shoes, following Arthur out into the midnight woods. Arthur goes to the horses, unloading all the weapons he can carry, buckling on his holster and nodding at Charles to do the same. When they’re done, Arthur unhitches both horses and gives a smack to send them rocketing off into the night.

“Come on,” he says with awful certainty, heading up the trail to the ridge. “Quietly,” he adds, as if Charles needs to be told. They make the assent in minutes. The notch in the ridge is fearfully cold, but the light of a full moon bathes it in light. Arthur crouches down and pulls his binoculars to his eyes. In the depths of night, all he can see the plume of smoke coming from the cottage, reaching up like a beacon in the still, night sky.

“Dammit,” he says, his breath shuddering out of him. He was so _sure_ in those panicked moments after waking - but he was just reacting like a child, believing that nightmares persist on waiting, crying out for parents to soothe away the night - he was a damn fool -

“Arthur,” Charles says urgently. “Give me the binoculars.” Arthur does so, an apology on his lips, but before he can say he was being a damn fool, Charles breathes out a curse.

“What is it?” Arthur says, peering out at the night.

“I don’t know how you knew but, shuttered lanterns,” Charles says, passing Arthur back the binoculars, gesturing back down the trail. With Charles’ directions, Arthur can see them now, faint little lights bobbing down the smugglers’ trail, half a dozen of them, at least.

“How did they find us?” Arthur says. “You don’t think - the Coopers…?”

Charles shakes his head sharply. “If Harold turned us in, I’ll eat my hat. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’d say it’s impossible this is just some coincidence.”

They crouch on the ridge, shivering in the buffeting wind, watching in silence as the bobbing lanterns draw to the cabin a few hundred feet below. There’s a noise of horses and low conversation, and eventually they see a bright flare of fire - torches being lit and pressed to the eaves of the old cabin. The flames catch quickly, sending sooty smoke up into the sky.

With the additional light of the blaze, Arthur can pick out eight silhouettes through the binoculars. One is wearing a familiar bowler, and beside him in the light of the fire, Arthur can see a weasley, grinning face, bathed in the glow of the flames.

Micah.

“That goddamn sonuvabitch,” Arthur breathes, “Guess I’ll get to kill him yet.”

Beside him, Charles is quiet and resolved, staring stonily at the scene playing out below.

“They’ll realize we’re not in there soon enough,” Charles says as they stand. “We can’t run, not even with the full moon, and they’ll tear apart the woods looking for us.”

“So we fight,” Arthur says, sighing. Eight for the two of them. He’d lived through worse, but not by much.

“We should split up,” Charles says, “You’ve got your rifle?” Arthur nods, swinging it down off his shoulder. “Good. Get to higher ground,” he says, jerking his head up at the narrow peaks flanking the notch. “See if you can’t pick off one or two. I’ll loop around. They don’t know we’ve seen them, that’s something.”

With sudden ferocity, Charles drags Arthur into a kiss, fingers knotted in his collar, his mouth so full and warm, pressed demandingly against Arthur’s lips.

“The farm is called Serendipity,” Charles says in a rush, “It’s fifteen miles north of Lamarch - across the river, you have to pick up the North Aspen road, follow it until you reach Cider Mill road, and -”

“Shut the fuck up,” Arthur says, pulling Charles into another kiss, angry and determined. “You’ll show me it your damn self. Now go take out a few of those bastards - I want to get back to bed.”

Charles laughs, and kisses Arthur once more before he darts away silently into the night, disappearing between one step and the next. Arthur is scrambling up to the peak when he starts to hear shouts from below, Micah’s voice raised loud and angry.

“It’s fuckin’ empty!” he screams, his voice rough and feral. “Goddamn it Milton, can you mother fuckers do anything right?”

“That is _enough_ , Mister Bell!” Milton shouts. “ _Your_ goddamn information hasn’t done us much good since Annesburg. Men, spread out, they’re here somewhere.”

There’s a fury in Arthur’s chest as he braces against a pine at the peak of the ridge. They were so goddamn close to freedom, and here they were, dragged unwilling into yet another bloody fray.

He raises the rifle - through the dark and trees, he knows he won’t be able to get off more than one shot before they all dive for cover. Best make it count.

He takes a deep breath, hoping that Charles has found a spot to go to ground. He lines up the shot - Micah and Milton have filtered out of view, but he’s got a good line of sight on one of the bastards walking away from the flames - the cowards had tried to burn them alive, had tried to kill Charles with no more care than a farmer clearing out gophers.

He pulls the trigger, the man falls, as easy as picking off bottles had been when he was fifteen years old. There are shouts and screams. All the men flee into cover, and Arthur is viciously, savagely satisfied.

“The ridge!” Milton screams, “They’re up at the goddamn ridge! I swear to Christ, Cooper, if you got word ahead to them somehow, I’ll make sure your wife lives long enough to see you swing!”

God damnit, Arthur thinks, snarling silently. That didn’t sound like a man talking to a willing informant. In the chaos of the blaze and the frantic clamour of the men into cover, he can’t see much through the scope, but if one of those eight was Harold, it was one less man they’d need to kill.

He hopes to pick off at least one more as the men approach the ridge; the notch is wide enough and with the moonlight he could shoot a fly off a horse’s ass at this distance, but he’s not that lucky. Milton, the coward, crests the ridge with Harold held in chains in front of him, gagged and bound, a sawed off shotgun pressed into the man’s throat.

“Mister Morgan!” Milton shouts into the night. “Mister Smith! Why don’t you bastards come down here and we’ll discuss this like men? I’m sure Mister Cooper here would _greatly_ appreciate your compliance. As would his widow - I’m sorry, of course I mean his _wife_.”

“Yellow bellied prick,” Arthur mutters to himself. From here he can see that Harold has taken a pummeling - he’s got a black eye and a split lip and he’s limping as he’s dragged along.

He can’t pick out Charles anywhere in the darkness around the clearing, but Milton has started to shout a countdown out, fingers curled around the trigger, and Harold’s eyes shut in anticipation of the shot. Arthur curses, grabs his bag from his feet, and skids down the slope, carefully stowing his satchel and guns behind a heavy tree stump before he saunters out into the ring of light.

“Hello there, Mister Milton,” he says cheerily, hands raised non-threateningly, taking a moment to look Harold over. He sure as hell took a beating, but there’s not much fear in his eyes, which Arthur can commend. The look they trade is apologetic, and Arthur gives him a short, shallow nod. _Not your fault, friend, I’m sorry_. “Funny running into you all the way out here. Micah. You’re looking well. Good thing you got that rattle of yours, otherwise we might not’ve heard you coming.”

Truth be told, Micah looks like boiled shit, his eyes rheumy and yellowed, his skin wan and stretched over his bones. But the madness in his eyes hasn’t changed, and he just watches Arthur with satisfaction, blood and mucous caked into his mustache.

“I’m gonna put a bullet in your goddamn head myself, Morgan,” Micah says, grinning at him sunnily.

But Milton cuts him off. “Like hell you will, Bell. We need him alive. You want to be the one to push him off the gallows, then by all means, but we’re bringing these two inverts in for justice.” He repositions the gun under Harold’s chin, crushing it against his windpipe. “Where’s Smith?”

“Oh,” Arthur says casually, hands held aloft. “I’m sure he’s around here somewhere. What are you doing to that nice man, Milton? I bet he’s a tax-payer and everything.”

“You mean this fucking race traitor? Him and his little negro wife?” Milton laughs, bracing against Harold’s sudden struggling, which is fierce enough to send Milton’s hat tumbling off his head. “They're just doin’ their civic duty, helping us track down you goddamn animals, isn’t that right, Mister Cooper?” Milton chuckles. “Took some convincing, of course.”

“I’ll bet it did,” Arthur says, comforted only by the fact that Harold would never have helped the Pinkertons if something had happened to his girls. They were alive somewhere, used as leverage. Arthur would stake his life on it.

“Now, what you’re going to do,” Milton says slowly, as if talking to a fool, “Is get down on the ground on your belly. Bet you’re real good at that, aren’t you, Morgan?”

Arthur sighs heavily. There’s four Pinkertons behind Milton and Micah, all holding guns at the ready. If they want to bring him and Charles in, they’ll have to travel a long way through hard country to get them in front of a judge. Plenty of time to escape, normally, but he knows for certain Micah ain’t above slitting a man’s throat in the middle of the night. So, it ends here.

No sound from Charles yet, but of course there wouldn’t be. “Alright alright,” Arthur says, calmingly. He makes as if to start laying down, watching Milton carefully out of the corner of his eye, the wild, satisfied look on his face, almost frothing at the lips. Arthur still has his holster at his hip, and Milton, reveling too much in his victory, hasn’t told him to take it off. Sloppy, but Arthur sends a prayer up to whatever God looked out for murderers and thieves and inverts. “Easy now, Milton, easy, I’m goin, I’m goin…”

Arthur moves slowly, playing it off as if he’s showing how harmless he is, but in truth, he’s stalling. He’s not sure for what, but Charles is out there in the dark somewhere, forgotten by Milton and Micah and his men, but not by Arthur. Behind him, the wind sighs, and he hears the faint, almost impossibly small noise of a twig snapping. He keeps the grin off his face by force of will alone, and makes as if to go down on his knees.

There’s a soft _woosh_ over Arthur’s shoulder and the dagger appears in Milton’s eye almost soundlessly, mere inches from Harold’s ear. Death comes so swiftly for the old bastard that his men don’t even seem to notice at first, all standing, guns drawn, behind him. But Harold’s eyes go wide, and for a moment the world is silent, just Charles’ dagger stuck out of Milton’s skull like a horn, blood oozing out of the fatal wound in a lurid splash of red.

 _Nice shot_ , Arthur thinks, fluidly reaching for the gun at his hip as time comes crashing back in around them. Milton starts to slide off Harold’s back and one of his men shouts, all the guns whipped around to point at Arthur, ignoring whatever faint shadow Charles is casting in the woods to Arthur’s back. But they’re too late, too slow. They don’t have much more riding on this fight than a bonus and a cushy promotion, Arthur is looking at freedom or an open grave. He shoots from the hip, and before he dives for cover he sees the bullet tear through the throat of one of the Pinkertons, sending him down in an awful, gory collapse, the man’s breath gurgling out of the gaping hole in his windpipe.

Chaos, then, the men shouting over one another, Micah damn near frenzied with anger. The men start to scatter, and just as Arthur crashes back to the tree stump where he’s stored his things, Micah snarls and unholsters a revolver, stalking up to Harold vengefully.

“You outlived your usefulness,” he growls, and Arthur is struggling to line up a shot on Micah when Charles explodes out of his hiding place a dozen feet away, tackling Harold to the rambling brush on the other side of the clearing, desperately dragging him into cover.

Micah swings his gun around and squeezes off a shot, the muzzle flare magnesium bright. It’s impossible to tell if it’s landed, but Charles is able to stagger into cover with Harold, so if the shot landed, it wasn’t fatal. At least, not immediately. Micah snarls in outrage, but as he turns to give chase, Arthur has already started to light the Molotov cocktail prepared in his bag, and tosses it to Micah’s feet, not even pausing to enjoy the man’s frantic screaming as Arthur collects his things, dashing back up the slope to the peak.

His mouth tastes like copper and his pulse is roaring in his ears, and though he listens for victorious shouts from Micah, gun shots, all he hears is the Pinkertons yelling at one another and Micah damning them for their incompetence. He looks down at the clearing from the cover of an old pine tree, and lets himself be optimistic. There’s no sign of Charles or Harold across the notch, but if he can’t see them, the Pinkertons can’t either. The fire from the Molotov cocktail has caught on some of ancient storage crates, bathing the clearing in a warm glow.

“Split up and _find them_ you motherless sons of bitches,” Micah spits. The three remaining Pinkertons look harried, unwilling to dive out of cover. Milton had gone down without so much as a sound, no grand battle, no honorable last stand, just a man turning into meat between one breath and the next.

“Fuck off, Bell, we don’t take orders from you,” one of the men says, and turns to his two remaining companions. “Fall back, they can’t get off this ridge til sun-”

The shot cracks through the night, echoing around the hills. Hunkered down at the peak, it takes Arthur a moment to realize what has happened, even as the man who’d been talking staggers, half of his head blown clear off. His body hits the ground with a heavy inelegant thud, reminding Arthur too much of throwing a deer carcass down on Pearson’s table.

Micah aims his smoking revolver at the two remaining Pinkertons. “I said, _find them_ ,” he says, low and quiet. “Ain’t _asking_. ‘less you wanna join your buddy on the ground there?”

The men exchange a glance that goes on a moment too long; Micah fires shot into the ground between their feet, barking out, “Do you _understand_? I don’t give a good god damn who you worked for. You work for me now. Now take your yellow carcasses into the woods and track these faggots down, you hear me?”

Arthur chambers a round his rifle, but by the time he brings it up to shoot, the men have split up, scrambling into the dark forest below. Cursing, he squints through the scope, searching for Micah, but the bastard has slid into the woods as well. The night returns to an untrustworthy quiet, almost peaceful except for the fire still licking at the crates in the clearing below.

Arthur takes a deep, steadying breath. With the remaining Pinkertons creeping through the woods, it’s down to the strategy he’d used in so many fights before; kill the bastards before the bastards kill him. Ain’t the most elegant tactic in the world, but it’s served well enough until now. He slings the rifle back over his shoulder and unsheathes the bowie knife Javier had given him years ago. The last thing he needs is to give up his position with a gunshot, not with Micah sniffing around for blood like a mad man.

And so he waits, feeling far more like the hunted than a hunter. Time slides by painfully slowly, minutes lengthening into what feels like hours. The tension sits in his chest, stretched taut between his ribs, caging in his heart and lungs.

Arthur is just starting to consider sneaking out of cover to track the Pinkertons down when a sudden, echoing shot rings out across the notch, followed by a man’s high scream. Arthur stops breathing, his fingers clutched white knuckled around the hilt of the knife. Moments later, another shot rings out, jarringly loud. This time, silence is the only thing that follows after, heavy and dark and cloying.

If the downed man had been Charles, then surely the Pinkerton would have announced it, crowed out his victory to the others. The silence must mean that Charles had taken a Pinkerton out. It must. Arthur lets out a breath, shoving aside his anxiety, trying to slip into the quiet certainty that flows around him in a fight. He forces himself to stay tucked safely in cover, watching for anything that moves.

But the Pinkerton that had followed Arthur isn’t nearly so cautious, and Arthur hears him crashing through the brush only ten feet away, trying to run back to the notch to assess the damage. Quiet, like Charles had spent countless hours showing him, Arthur darts down to him, sliding up behind him like a shadow. The man doesn’t even twitch until Arthur has wrapped one arm around his neck, and by then it's too late. Arthur slits his throat in one smooth, practiced motion, holding him in a fierce lock as the man struggles, arterial spurts coating his arm, hot and sticky and awful.

Eventually, the man’s flailing becomes weak and finally, he stills. Arthur lets the corpse drop the the forest floor, his heart racing in his chest. His arm is tacky with blood, rapidly cooling in the chill of the night. He drags a hand back across his forehead, mind racing - just one left, and he’s not so lucky to believe it isn’t Micah.

He needs to get back into cover, he thinks, turning on his heels to climb back up the slope, but as he does, he sees out of the corner of his eye a golden, indistinct shape glowing in the heavy darkness beneath the pines. He thinks of antlers and a silent storm, and before he can process any more than that, his body lurches to the right as if pulled by a string, and he spins around, fluidly pulling his gun from his holster and letting off a shot just as he sees Micah’s face bathed in the muzzle flare of his own shot, mere feet behind him.

Pain shoots through his bicep and Arthur drops his pistol, losing it almost instantly in the heavy leaf litter and darkness of the forest floor. Micah’s shot, which should have killed him, has clipped his arm instead, letting a fresh gust of copper into the night air. In the chaos of that moment, full of pain and gunshots, Arthur sees that his own shot hasn’t landed as intended, but he’s managed to shoot Micah’s gun from his hand, the pistol spinning out into the depths of night.

“Hey there, _brother_ ,” Micah snarls and launches himself at Arthur, tackling him to the ground.

The ridge, though populated with pines, is more cliff than not, and their tussling rolls them out of the cover of trees, away from the notch and down a loose scree of gravel, tumbling over one another and landing heavy blows before they come to a rest at the bottom of the incline. Micah, to Arthur’s shame, has come out on top, grinning madly.

“Mister Morgan,” Micah oozes, blood pouring from a broken nose. He raises a hand to strike. “It’s been a while, huh?”

Before the blow can land, Arthur twists beneath him, savagely jabbing at Micah’s kidney’s and using the distraction to kick Micah away, scrambling to his feet. They’re both unarmed now, but that don’t mean Micah won’t take every chance to beat the life from his bones if he gets the chance. By rights, the tuberculosis should have left Micah weak and infirmed, but as sallow as he looks, there’s still a savage, rage-fueled strength clinging to him. He springs to his feet a moment after Arthur, grinning like the devil in the white light of the moon.

“You know the best part about you running off with that half-bred invert?” Micah says, breathing hard, “Dutch is just real, _real_ sure that you’ve been the one been feeding information to our government pals.” Micah laughs, delighted. “He wasn’t even _surprised_.”

“Fuck off, Micah,” Arthur says roughly, holding one hand to the wound in his arm. His bad shoulder is screaming out in agony, jostled six ways from Sunday in their tumble down the hill.

Micah grins at him. “I told him I was gonna come after you, show you what we do to traitors, and he gave me his goddamn _blessing_." Micah pauses, savoring his next words."He said you always seemed the type to turn your back on family.”

The words land like a blow, the ache in his chest nearly as painful as the wound in his arm, and Micah takes full advantage of it, flinging himself at Arthur wildly. In the chaos, Arthur misses Micah pulling his knife from its sheath, doesn’t even see it until it’s buried three inches in the scar in his shoulder, instantly focusing that agony into a blinding explosion of pain. Arthur staggers, going down to his knees, and Micah takes the opportunity to kick him in the balls, sending Arthur into a fetal position at his feet.

His breathing labored, Micah preens above him, unholstering a gun hidden behind his back.

“You know, Dutch had a rough few weeks,” he says conversationally, hacking up bloody mucous and spitting onto the ground. “Betrayed, abandoned, and you know what? Last I saw him, he was fighting off a really awful _cough_.”

On the ground, Arthur groans, trying to uncurl enough to drag the knife from his shoulder. If he can get to it, maybe he can sweep Micah’s feet from beneath him, stab the slimy bastard in the heart.

Micah crouches down over Arthur, affecting a contemplative look. “Maybe I shouldn’t even just let you end so quick,” he muses, “Maybe I should just spit in your eye, how ‘bout that, Morgan? This sickness is yours by rights, not mine. Maybe we should drown in blood together.”

Arthur stares up at him, covered in dirt and blood, his body screaming out from a dozen injuries, and almost screams as the movement grinds the blade in his shoulder against bone. Micah, blood drenched and smiling, works up an awful glob of spit his his mouth, but he pauses, raising the gun instead. “Nah, I ain’t a patient man,” he says, leveling the gun at Arthur’s temple, and -

-his head explodes into a gory mess, blood and bone and brains splattered across the moonlit rocks and gravel around them, the sharp crack of a rifle barely filtering through the panic in Arthur’s mind. Arthur sees the ruin of what had been Micah’s face in perfect detail, a sight that will no doubt bring him joy on cold nights in the years ahead. Micah’s body slumps to the side, gun tumbling from limp fingers and skittering over the rocks.

Behind him, standing at the top of the hill, streaked with blood, his hair carried around his head by the wind, Charles stands, gripping a rifle in both hands, breath heaving out of him, his eyes wide and beautiful and relieved.

*

They limp their way back to the notch carefully, leaving Micah’s ruined corpse for the vultures. Charles has pulled the knife from Arthur’s shoulder, pressing a kiss and an apology against his neck as he did so, and helped him to staunch the bleeding after he threw the blade away.

“You’re wounded,” Arthur says, noticing for the first time as they come up on the clearing; there’s blood soaking through Charles pant leg and he’s limping as he helps Arthur along.

“Micah clipped me,” Charles admits, “Not bad, looks worse than it is.”

“You gotta stop saving me,” Arthur sighs, “Making me look bad.”

Charles smiles wryly. “Never.”

In the notch, Harold has folded down beside the burning crates, warming himself. Milton’s body has been dragged away, kicked unceremoniously into the edge of the woods. Harold has lost the chains at some point, and he starts to stand as they approach. Arthur waves at him wearily.

“Ah, don’t stand up, I’m joining you in a second,” he mutters, sliding down across from him carefully.

“I’ve got some bandages in Taima’s saddlebags,” Charles says, scanning the ridge. “I’m gonna go collect the horses. That was all of them, right Harold?”

Harold nods, spitting into the fire. “There was just the seven of ‘em. Bastards. Ain’t grieving their bones, that’s for damn sure.”

Charles nods, relieved. “I’ll be back. Sit tight.”

It’s quiet but for the whistling of the wind. “Mister Cooper…” he starts, sighing heavily. “I am so, _so_ sorry you got dragged into all this. Martha and Caroline, are they - ?”

“They’re fine,” Harold sighs, peering at the fire. “Martha...I didn’t tell her about you boys. Didn’t want to worry her, you understand? So when these fellas came trotting up the road, telling a story about how they was trying to catch up with their buddies, have we seen them, what have you, she told ‘em about how you rescued our Caroline, pleased as punch to do some bragging for you.” He swivels his gaze over at Arthur. “They didn’t stay friendly after that. Gave me a beating. Told me they’d hurt the girls if I didn’t lead them to you.”

“I real sorry, I wish -”

Harold waves this away. “They locked the girls in the root cellar ‘fore we left. Didn’t even leave no one guarding them.” He chuckles softly. “If I know Caroline, she chewed her way outta there an hour after they took off with me.”

“She’s got a lotta moxie,” Arthur says, laughing weakly. “Look, I…”

“Listen here….Mister Morgan,” Harold says, not gentle but not angry either. “This ain’t the best day I’ve ever had in my life, but it ain’t the worst I had either. They told me a lot of awful stories about you and Charles over there, but truth be told, I got some awful stories of my own. I also got shown kindness more’n once when I sure as hell didn’t deserve it, not least of which by my Martha. If they’d laid a finger on my girls, I might not be so forgiving, but they’re just fine, and - well.” He gives Arthur a small smile. “Ain’t nothing wrong with a bit of outlawing.”

“Thank you,” Arthur says roughly, staring into the flames. “You ever run into trouble, you send word up to Lamarch, you hear? We’re fixing to stay there for a while.”

Harold nods, warming his hands at the fire. “So I’ve gathered.”

“You, uh, okay? Come outta the fight clean?”

Harold bobs his head. “That weasley feller clipped Charles something good, so we had to scramble to get outta harm’s way. Then that goddamn government man came prowlin’ around and Charles loaned me a gun and I put a few bullets in him.” He looks grimly satisfied. “Didn’t much like the way he looked at Caroline, anyway.”

“Good man,” Arthur says, nodding. The casual way Harold says it makes Arthur fairly certain it isn’t the first time he’s killed a man, and it makes him wonder more about that little smuggling operation Harold hinted at earlier. Seems they might be more kindred spirits than not.

“Anyway, after he went down, Charles was real keen to go find you,” Harold continues, sighing. “Got the keys to the cuffs off the deadman while he went off hunting you.” He pauses awkwardly, looking down at his hands. “That stuff they was saying about - you two, how you’re - you know, uh...”

Arthur glares over at him stormily. “What about it?”

“It’s true then?” Harold says, looking a bit uncomfortable. “You two don’t look it.”

“Don’t know what it’s supposed to look like,” Arthur says grumpily. “I ain’t about to listen about how it’s sinning - “

“I don’t know from sinning, calm down,” Harold says huffily. “Just ain’t ever met inverts before, that’s all.”

“Well, now you have,” Arthur mutters, poking his boot at the charred edges of the fire. “Don’t see how it’s your business.”

Harold holds his hands up in surrender, “Alright, alright. Sorry I brought it up. I know how...loving someone can make life difficult, that’s for damn sure.” He looks at the fire, mouth pursed as he thinks. “Suppose that’s for the best then. Caroline’s honor was safe with you two fellers, that’s for damn sure. What - hey, why you laughing?”

*

Charles returns with the horses fifteen minutes later and digs out the moonshine and the bandages.

“Take a swig and then let me wash the wounds out,” Charles says, smiling at the corners of his mouth.

“Yeah, yeah,” Arthur says, struggling out of his shirt. “Yuk it up, I’m doin’ you afters.”

That makes Harold choke a bit, but Arthur ignores him, swigging from the bottle before passing it back to Charles. The wound in his shoulder is still bleeding sluggishly and it aches all the way down his arm, but most of what got opened up was scar tissue, so he ain’t in much danger of bleeding out. Arthur’s got a feeling his shoulder ain’t ever gonna be wholly right again, not with all the abuse it’s taken, but if that’s the worst scar he gets leaving this life behind, then he’ll take it, and gladly.

It stings like hellfire getting it washed out with the liquor, but Charles is as quick and careful as he can be, and before long he’s packing the wound, fashioning a sling out of a few long bandages. He inspects the wound in Arthurs bicep as well and pronounces it minor, but still savagely rinses it with the booze.

“You’re a goddamn nuisance,” Arthur mutters through gritted teeth.

“Keepin’ you alive is busy work,” Charles says placidly, but he’s smiling as he gently wraps the wound.

Afterward, Arthur checks Charles over and finds that the graze in his thigh is indeed shallow, not even digging into the muscle. It’s already started to clot.

“Got lucky,” Arthur says as he finishes bandaging him up.

“More than once,” Charles sighs, stretching the leg out with a wince.

“You need any patching up?” Arthur asks Harold, gesturing with the remaining bandages.

“Nah, but I won’t say no to a swig of that mountain dew,” he says, smiling. “It’s gonna be a long, cold ride back home.”

Charles frowns at him. “You sure you don’t want to wait until morning?”

Harold takes an impressive swig from the bottle, not even wincing. “Nah, I gotta get back home to the girls, I don’t like leaving them worrying over me.” He sighs. “And if Caroline did get outta the cellar, I’m betting she’s riding hell bent for leather to find me, so I gotta make sure she ain’t out there trying to get herself killed.”

“Take the Pinkerton’s horses,” Charles says. “All of them. Figure you can sell them off for a pretty penny. Might as well get something out of this.”

“Buy Caroline that rifle she’s been eyeing,” Arthur says, smiling. “I figure she deserves it.”

“No,” Charles says, adamant and laughing, “Buy her a bow.”

*

They part with handshakes when the night is still deep. It feels ages like since Arthur awoke in a panic, but hardly more than an hour has passed by the time they’re watching Harold trot off into the darkness, carrying a shuttered lantern and seven horses reined up behind him.

“He’s a good man,” Charles says, yawning into his fist.

“Or just enough of a bastard to help out other bastards in their time of need,” Arthur says, smilinging slightly. “C’mon, we should sleep while we can. Lost the bedrolls in the fire, but I figure we can keep warm in the tent somehow.”

Charles turns to him, grinning, and cups Arthur’s face in his cold, rough hands. “I’m sure we’ll figure it out,” he murmurs, kissing Arthur as the wind whips around them, standing bloodied and unbeaten beneath a brilliantly lit night sky, on the cusp of freedom and a life that Arthur had never even dreamed of.

“Yeah,” he says roughly, his hands tight on Charles’ hips, holding him to steady himself, and lets hope unfold through him, reaching down to the last aching inch of his soul.

*

In the dusk of evening three days later, they make their way slowly down a country road. They’re quite a pair, both sporting bandages and aches and pains, but they’ve traveled more or less easily since slipping over the border, rejoining the main roads without so much as a whisper of trouble.

“Here,” Charles says, turning them off the main road up a path that’s a bit grown over, a faded sign reading “Serendipity,” hanging crookedly at the intersection. Around them, the woods are deep and shadowed, but for once it doesn’t feel threatening, more like a warm layer of insulation between this place and the horrors of the world. The path grades upward slowly, and Arthur follows along behind Charles with some sort of boyish anticipation licking at the inside of his ribs, nervous and excited and restless.

A few moments later, the path slips out of the woods and they rein up beside one another, looking at the farmland unfurling in the wide, autumn-burnished clearing below.

There’s a house in the center of the fields nearly a quarter mile away, beautiful and sprawling and white with a stately porch wrapped around it. A plume of smoke rises from the chimney, and Arthur can hear faint strains of guitar music drifting on the wind. In the distance, he can see small cottages on the edge of the far fields, tucked in against the lip of the forest. Everything looks a bit old, worn down in a way that speaks of comfort and routine.

The horses are turned out in the pasture before the house; Arthur easily picks out Silver Dollar and Old Boy and Boaz grazing sedately in the frost-touched grass. Distantly he hears a dog barking and a moment later a familiar black cur darts around to the front of the house, joyfully rushing up to them.

“You even saved the damn dog?” Arthur says, looking over at Charles incredulously. Cain is tilting full speed towards them, darting up the road. A moment later, the front door of the house bangs open, and half a dozen people pile out - Hosea and John and Javier and all the rest - and when the group catches sight of them, a cheer goes up.

“That was all Hosea,” Charles says, grinning. His face is so open and relaxed, looking down on this small slice of heaven with profound relief. The last few ounces of weight seems to slide from his shoulders, and he looks happier than Arthur has ever seen him, joy making his smile bright and lovely and pure.

Arthur’s heart is beating in his throat, and what he's overcome with in that moment is awe - at this land, at their escape, at the man riding beside him who saved him so many times, in so many ways, who had taken Arthur’s awkward affection and forged it into a bond so deep it sometimes scared him.

“Ain’t nobody ever loved me like you do,” Arthur says roughly, his eyes wet as he drinks the view in hungrily. Little Jack is chasing Cain up the road, his laugh like small bells on the wind. They were all here, all his stolen, wild family, smiling and laughing with joy.

Charles turns to look at him, his gaze fond and kind, a smile lingering around the curve of his mouth. “More fool them.”

They urge the horses into a walk and follow the trail down to the house, to home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I've actually finished a multi-chapter story. Thank you so, so, so much to everyone that's left kudos and comments and urged me on! 
> 
> Find me over at [allthingsmustfall](https://allthingsmustfall.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Comments and kudos are love ❤️


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